Stormriders: The Tale of Maeldhuin and Gilthaethil
by Glamis Castle Rose
Summary: S. A. 1695. Storms gather over Middle Earth. Maeldhuin, a herald of Eregion, carries tokens of great power to GilGalad. OC companion piece to The Captain and the King. Please review.
1. Prologue The Rising Dark

Stormriders:  The Tale of Maeldhuin and Gilthaethil 

Disclaimer:  The settings and characters of the Silmarillion belong to J.R.R. Tolkien and his estate.  This story has been crafted solely for entertainment purposes, and no copyright infringement is intended.  Many thanks to PlasticChevy for inspiring the character of Gilthaethil.****

**Chapter One - Prologue - _The Rising Dark_**

_Long ago, when the Jewel Smiths ruled Eregion, Sauron, feigning goodwill, wholly deceived the Elven artisans. With fair mien hiding a false heart, the Dark Lord exchanged knowledge with the Elves and guided them in the forging of rings of Power. Many rings were crafted under his tuition, and every one of them was poisoned with his malice. _

_Celebrimbor, of Fëanor's line, greatest in skill, 'twas said, since Fëanor himself, learned best the art of ring making. Not only was he gifted in the crafting of jewels, however, he was also possessed of wisdom and foresight. Sensing that the days of peace were drawing to an end, and that the Darkness would soon return, he secretly wrought three great rings of Power: the Ring of Air, the Ring of Water, and the Ring of Fire. Celebrimbor hoped that the power in these rings might halt the encroaching Shadow, safeguard the world of the Eldar, and protect the free races of Middle Earth. _

_Sauron's hand never touched the Three. His eyes never beheld them. Yet he knew of their existence as soon as they were made, and he devised a foul scheme to bend them to his will. Deep in the fiery depths of Orodruin, he forged a mighty ring of his own, a ring so powerful that it would overcome even the great power of the Elves. But as Sauron pronounced the words that would forever enslave the Eldar, Celebrimbor became aware of his betrayal, and hid the Three._

_The Dark Lord was consumed with rage, and he prepared to unfurl his wrath upon the Jewel Smiths. Celebrimbor sensed that time was growing short. He fortified his city, and armed his folk for battle. But he knew full well that his people's strength lay in their mastery over the jewels of the earth, and not in their skill at the arts of war. He foresaw the destruction of Eregion, and resolved to send the Three Rings to the King for safekeeping, with the dire warning that they should never again be wielded openly, so long as Sauron held the One._

_And so it was that in the wan light of a late winter's dawn, three messengers left Ost-en-Edhil.  They rode west, bearing secret messages and powerful gifts for Gil-Galad, King of the Noldor of Middle Earth, and mightiest of the Elven Lords._

_* * *_

To be continued 


	2. The Cresting Storm

**Chapter Two - _The Cresting Storm_**

****

A pale sun settled on the western horizon, its dying beams casting long shadows across the cheerless land.  Maeldhuin reined in his mount, and turned an anxious gaze from the fading light ahead, to the gathering storm at his back. He cursed himself for an inept fool, wishing for the hundredth time that day that  he had stayed behind to take part in the defense of his city, instead of fleeing into the West with his companions.  Maeldhuin was no warrior, but neither was he so craven as to abandon his city in its hour of need.  

A gruff voice broke into his reverie.  "Cease your moping, lad, and get moving!  This is no pleasure ride!"

Maeldhuin returned his thoughts to the task at hand.  His two companions had not waited for him, and now rode several paces ahead.  He could ill afford to be cut off from them, and so, drawing his gaze away from the eastern ridges, he urged his horse to a trot.

As he rode, he considered the circumstances that had brought him to this place.   Long ago, he had been forced to recognize that he had little skill with a bow, and even less with a blade. Indeed, his swordsmanship was a source of great amusement to his peers, causing them to jibe that any foe Maeldhuin challenged was more likely to die of laughter than of any wound his blade might inflict.  The masters-at-arms, pushed beyond the limits of patience, finally suggested he concentrate on the arts of peace and leave the arts of war to those with skill enough to frighten their foes.

But neither, to Maeldhuin's shame, did he possess any great skill as a jewel smith, although he was, like his lord, a scion of Fëanor's line. Oh aye, he could whittle prettily enough, and had some small skill with a pen or a brush, but he could not pour his heart into the crafting of baubles. The master Jewel Smiths kindly suggested that he find a better use for his limited talent.  The libraries were frightfully untidy.  Perhaps the Keepers of the Scrolls could put him to some use.

And so, Maeldhuin had taken to haunting the libraries of Ost-en-Edhil, losing himself in tales of old, immersing himself in the languages, ways, and lore of distant lands. One day, Falathar, chief of Celebrimbor's heralds stumbled over him as he sat in the middle of a stack of ancient scrolls, lost in an ancient epic.  Recognizing something of himself in the studious young Elf, Falathar took Maeldhuin as his apprentice. 

Falathar drove the young Elf tirelessly, training his mind in the study of maps, protocol, languages, and cyphers, while he trained his body in the ways of shadows, stealth, and secrecy.  In due time, Maeldhuin became one of Celebrimbor's most trusted messengers.  Second only to Falathar himself, he bore missives from his lord to the scattered kin of the Noldor, wherever they dwelt in Middle Earth.  

A crash of thunder pulled Maeldhuin back to the present.  He twisted around on his saddle, turning to face the darkness over his home. The hills of Eregion were crowned with fire.  Lightning smote the sky above the City of Ost-en-Edhil. Even at this great distance, he could feel the ground tremble and groan beneath him. Suppressing a shiver, he nudged his horse forward. "We must make haste," he whispered.

Duilin, his kinsman, and Falathar's newest apprentice, turned to him, laughed, and shook his head.  "We are, Cousin," he said,  "Or we would be, if you were not stopping every few minutes."

"I am sorry," Maeldhuin said. "Only, I cannot shed this fear.  I do not think we shall ever see our homes again."

"Of course we will," Duilin answered.  "I don't know why you're suddenly beset with gloomy thoughts. 'Tis but a storm. The Enemy's forces will not have reached our city so quickly." 

"I pray that you are right, Duilin, but if our strength should..."

"Of course, I'm right.  But even if he does, fear not, he will taste the welcome our warriors have prepared for him."

"Enough!" barked Falathar. "There will be time aplenty to ponder the fate of our people when our messages have been safely delivered. Now cease your mindless chatter, or we shall never reach the end of our road!" The herald's mien was grave. 

Duilin guided his horse to Falathar's side. "Perhaps, if our Lord had sent the King one of his magic rings, the King would be better disposed to help our cause."

Falathar gripped the younger Elf's wrist. "Do not speak of it ever again!" he hissed.  The vehemence in Falathar's voice stunned the young Elf into silence. He cast a furtive look into the growing darkness, then held Duilin's gaze. "Remember, my lad, not all of the servants of the Enemy walk upon two legs.  Eyes and ears there are in the shadows, keener than those of any Elf." A wolf howled in the distance, its chilling cry punctuating Falathar's dire words.   Falathar spun around. "Wargs," he hissed.  "We can no longer tarry.  Ride!" he cried, "and woe to him who dares to look behind!"

* * *

For three days and three nights, the messengers passed like a wind over the hills of Eregion, riding without rest, until even their doughty steeds stumbled with weariness.  Only when Falathar's own mount slipped and nearly tossed him into a ravine, did the master herald reluctantly agree to a brief halt.

The horses and couriers rested in the warmth of a small fire.  Falathar sat on the margins of the fire's glow, fingering the pouch at his neck.  Duilin, having attempted to engage the elder herald in conversation, was gruffly dismissed for his pains.  He drew close to Maeldhuin with a troubled expression clouding his features.  "I wouldn't bother our Master, if I were you," he said, nodding in Falathar's direction.  "I just asked him where we were exactly, and my ears are still stinging from his answer."

Maeldhuin gave a rueful smile.  "Our situation must be dire indeed, if you cannot coax a smile from him, Cousin.  It is not his wont to be so short with us."

"Aye, he is troubled. He knows more than he says, but will not voice his fears to us."

Maeldhuin turned his bright gaze away from the fire. Far in the East, blood-red lightning tore angry streaks across the sky. "Those are no natural storms," he said, shaking his head.  "Whether they be Sauron's doing, or some other evil, I know not for certain.  I know only that my heart is filled with dread."

"Will not Dwarves will come to our City's aid?"

"Durin's folk are doughty warriors, but I fear they will soon have foes of their own to fight. The Enemy knows of our friendship with Durin's Folk; he will vent his rage upon them, as he will upon our own people."

"Or worse," Duilin mused, "he may deceive them too, and set them against us. The memories of the dwarves are as long as their beards. They have not forgotten the scorn the Elves showed their fathers when first they awoke. "

Maeldhuin said nothing, but stared blankly into the night. Duilin's voice grew plaintive. "If your worries be founded..." 

Maeldhuin tried to smile. "Hush, Duilin.  I should have kept my own counsel, and not burdened your heart with my dubious misgivings.  It is ever my wont to let my imagination get the better of me.  Be of good cheer.   Falathar will not let us fail."

Duilin cast Maeldhuin a doubtful look, and snorted.  "It's never like this in the old stories.  Where are all the great warriors of our kind?  We are not made of such heroic stuff.  I think our people are sadly diminished since the Elder days."  

Maeldhuin lay back,  folded his arms beneath his head, and stared into the murky darkness overhead. Three bright stars shone defiantly through a breach in the clouds.  "Look," he said.  a smile touching his lips. He pointed upwards.  "See? 'It is the belt of mighty  Menelmacar.   The Swordsman of the Heavens is rising to our aid.  Even now, his great sword is cleaving through this unearthly darkness.    Is he hero enough for you? 

Duilin smiled.  "Aye, he is.  And if he be with us, what need we fear?" 

* * *

The storm abated, yet the air remained heavy with foreboding.  All about, the world seemed bereft of life.  Even the cheerful nut-brown waters of the  Baranduin were uncharacteristically subdued. Maeldhuin had travelled this road in happier times, and  wondered at the changes he saw.  All light and mirth appeared to have fled these formerly pleasant lands.

Men dwelt in these parts and had opened their hearts and homes to travellers.  Now their scattered holdings and farmsteads stood silent and cheerless, with fields untilled, voices quelled, and doors heavily barred.  Rumour of war had blown in on the wind, spreading fear and suspicion, and Man and Nature now braced themselves against the coming storm.

A fortnight into their journey, the riders left the desolate plains behind, and began winding their way into the rolling hills of western Eriador. From the wooded hilltops, their keen eyes could make out the distant ribbon of the River Lhûn, the crossing of which would mark the final leg of their wearisome quest.

The horses had been skittish all morning, rearing, bucking, shying from shadows, even stopping in their tracks at times  for no apparent reason.   Only gentle words whispered into their ears had persuaded the frightened animals to go further, and they were held to the road only by the loyalty and love they bore their riders. 

But even the most loyal mount can be pushed beyond the limits of endurance.  Without warning, Duilin's docile mare reared and would go no further. The young Elf bent over the horse's neck to whisper a word of comfort, and as he did, an arrow came whistling from the shadows, barely missing his neck. Without thought, he threw himself to the ground. Falathar and Maeldhuin followed, springing from their horses, taking what meagre shelter they could in the shallow depression bordering the trail. The horses neighed wildly and bolted back down the path. 

"Alfirin, stay!"  Unmindful of the danger, Duilin leaped after his horse, and only Falathar's hand was quick enough to grab hold of his cloak.

"Release me, Master, I beseech you!"

"Get down, young fool! Are you trying to get yourself killed?"

"I cannot let her go!" Duilin cried, and tugging his cloak from Falathar's grip, he sprang away after his steed. A moment later, Maeldhuin heard the telltale whine of a second arrow, followed by a sharp cry. 

"DUILIN!!" Maeldhuin ran crouching along the gully, until he found his cousin, writhing in the roadway, an orc's wicked arrow protruding from his chest. 

Maeldhuin rushed to the side of his fallen kinsman. "Oh, Duilin!" 

Falathar crept to Duilin's side and seized Maeldhuin's arm. "Leave him!" he hissed. "He is done for!"

Maeldhuin spun around to face his master, a look of horror on his fair face. "Leave him? To die alone, like an animal?"

"Look well! That is no hunter's stray. Look around you, lad. Would you be next?"

Gasping for breath, Duilin turned his face towards his companions. "Run!  Fly, while you can!" 

"I will not abandon him!" Maeldhuin wrenched his arm free of the herald's grip. Duilin's breathing was laboured, his bright gaze clouded with pain, his countenance a ghastly white.  Maeldhuin took the younger Elf's hand, and forced a note of encouragement into his strained voice.   "Be still, Duilin.  Be brave. I will carry you to safety."

"Go, please!," Duilin wept. " Leave me, I beg you." 

"Nay, I will not." Maeldhuin pulled Duilin off the trail, into the shelter of the gully.  The younger Elf cried out in pain. Maeldhuin held him in his arms.  "Hush, cousin."  His voice was strangled with tears.  "'Tis nothing of concern. You'll be right as rain in no time." 

Falathar crouched by Maeldhuin's side. "There's a brave lad, hush now.  Be still."  Duilin tried to smile, but a stab of pain tore a gasp from his throat.

Falathar took hold of Duilin's hand, and caressed his pale brow. "Soon, my lad, you will enter the halls of Mandos," the elder herald began in soothing tones, "and after a brief time of rest, you will join the heroes of the tales you love so well."

"NO!" Maeldhuin cried, and clutched at Duilin's free hand. "He will live!  You will live cousin!"

Falathar ignored him. "I charge you with one last mission."

"Master?" Duilin's voice was a breathless whisper.

"When you see my lord Finrod, greet him fondly for me, and tell him that one day, we will walk together in the Gardens of Lórien.  Will you do that for me?" 

Duilin smiled and closed his eyes. "The Gardens of Lórien. I will carry your words, Master.  I will not fail you." He smiled and was still.

"Duilin?" Maeldhuin's eyes burned with tears, and he shook his head in disbelief.  "Oh, Duilin!"

Falathar placed a comforting hand on Maeldhuin's shoulder.  "He is gone.  Come, my lad.  We must not linger here."

Maeldhuin pulled Duilin's body from the ground.  "Master, we cannot leave him thus." 

"There is no time to tend his body. He would understand.  The orcs that slew your cousin are closing in about us.  If we are taken, and our mission fails, then Duilin will have died in vain."

"What will they do to him?" Maeldhuin asked, refusing to release his cousin's hand.

"I dare not guess. It matters not.  Even now, his spirit is flying towards the Undying Lands. This broken shell is of no further use to him. Come now, gather yourself. Take some token of his in remembrance, if you wish.  It may, in time, bring you some measure of comfort.  There will be time enough for grief and tears after we reach the King."

Maeldhuin lay Duilin's body down on a soft bed of heather, and brushed the tousled strands of hair from his peaceful face.  He knelt beside him in solemn stillness, not yet able to abandon him. 

"Come, lad," the herald said in a kind but firm voice. He placed his fingers over Maeldhuin's and gently loosened his grip.  "By now the alarm will have been given.  We must leave this place ere we find ourselves cornered like rats. "

Maeldhuin lifted a slender chain and medallion from Duilin's neck.  Beneath his breath, he voiced a  prayer to Mandos, and then, as tears clouded his sight, he silently followed his grim-faced master into the shadows.

* * *

To be continued 


	3. The Keeper of the Well

**Chapter Three_ - The Keeper of the Well_**

The kestrel's wing had mended cleanly.  In another day or two, the bird would be ready to fly away.  Gilthaethil smiled, satisfied with a job well-done. Cooing a word of comfort, she set the bird on the lowest branch of a pine tree. A spring bubbled up from the ground near the tree's roots, tarried briefly in a sandy bowl before leaping free to splash its way down the hill.  Gilthaethil knelt by the pool, and skimmed the soft ripples with her hand to remove pine needles, leaves and debris that clouded the waters.  She gazed at the reflection of the first stars of twilight dancing on the surface, delighting in the ineffable beauty of the moment, then, swirling her hands about, she broke the spell, and laughed as the reflection vanished and reappeared, scattering across the water.

At her belt, she wore an oddly fashioned cup, which she now unclasped and dipped into the water.  She sprinkled a few drops on the ground to honour the powers who protected the fountain and its surrounding glade, then thirstily swallowed the rest.  Her thirst quenched, she once more dipped her hand in the spring, splashed water onto her face and neck, rose, stretched, and breathed in deeply.  The air was rich with the sun-warmed fragrance of the forest, and wonderfully restorative.    The shadows had grown long, and the daylight hours were slowly giving way to the twilight.  Gilthaethil's world was at peace.

She cleared her mind, settled her back against sun-warmed outer wall of her dwelling, and was surrendering herself to the stillness of the night, when a raucous cry shattered the tranquility of the hilltop glade. From not far away, came the frantic rustle of feet hurrying through the brush, followed closely by growls and dissonant cries.  A deadly pursuit was on.

Gilthaethil sprang to her feet, and ran to hide herself in the dim recess of her cavern entrance.  Seconds later, as she crouched in the shadows, an Elf came stumbling into view. Running, turning every few steps to hazard a glance over his shoulder, he did not see the fountain. In his haste, he set his foot down in the pool's soft bottom, felt a disconcerting pop, and pitched face first into the turf. The kestrel screeched in alarm, which only upset the intruder even more. He struggled to his feet, but found his ankle could not bear his weight.  He bit back a cry of pain as he crumpled again to the ground. The bird expressed its displeasure all the more wildly. "Shut up, you ridiculous creature!" he hissed. Cursing softly, he groped about until he found a small stone, and after a third screeching squawk, he drew back his arm and took aim at the feathered fiend.

"Drop it, lest you should care to find my knife lodged in your chest!" The female voice was cold and deathly earnest.

Maeldhuin opened his fingers, and the pebble fell to the ground.  "I...I mean no harm. Truly, I do not," he stammered. "Only, silence your wretched bird, before it calls that band of Orcs down upon us."

Gilthaethil smiled frostily from her hiding place. "If indeed there are Orcs about, then thatwretched bird may have saved your miserable skin by alerting me to your predicament."

Maeldhuin struggled to his feet, and tried to take a step, but pain lanced up from his ankle and the glade swam darkly before his eyes. He swayed dangerously, and only saved himself from another humiliating fall by grabbing a branch to steady himself. The same branch, regrettably, where the enraged bird was now attempting to tear the skin from his hand. "Please, if you will not help me, then, by the Valar, drive your blade into my throat, and put an end to it! Only, be quick about it, and begone, I pray you."

Gilthaethil stepped out from her hiding place, and made a quick appraisal of the situation. The intruder's fair features were grey with fear and pain. Whoever he was, she deemed his plight was genuine, and strode into the clearing, reaching an ungloved hand towards the agitated bird.  "Hush, Mîm!" she said, stroking the kestrel's feathers, and to Maeldhuin's great surprise, the bird instantly grew still and docile.

He had no time to ponder this strange partnership, for at that moment, his sharp ears registered the din of the approaching chase.  "Quickly, I beg you. This hill is swarming with Orcs. We must get away!" 

Gilthaethil approached him with not a hint of haste. "They will not find us here," she assured him. "Lean on me, and I will help you to safety." Maeldhuin was too dumbfounded to think of anything coherent to say, and so he silently allowed himself to be led inside Gilthaethil's secret cavern. 

As his eyes adjusted to the dim light, he caught his breath in awe.  At the end of a gently sloping tunnel, a large room opened. A brazier in the centre of the room held a few glowing embers. Shelves and niches had been carved out of the stone, and these were lined with drawings, books, crockery, jars, baskets, bundles of herbs, and skeins of yarn. Here and there, animal skins were stretched in frames. At one end of the room, there was a large loom, while an elaborate and richly -coloured tapestry depicting a majestic white stag dominated the opposite wall.

"What is this place?" he asked, forgetting for a moment the throbbing pain in his ankle.

"It is my home, my sanctuary." She led him to a deep fur-draped ledge in the rock wall of the cavern. "Sit here," she said and disappeared up the tunnel, where she dropped a heavy cloth before the opening of the cave. None but the most discerning eyes would spot her refuge now.

She returned with the kestrel, and placed it on a perch on the far side of the room.  She lit a candle and sat by her guest. "Best lay back and put your foot up," she said. Maeldhuin did not stir, but stared anxiously towards the shadowed depths of the tunnel. "There is nothing to fear. Your pursuers will not find you here."

Maeldhuin relaxed and lifted his foot onto the ledge. "It is broken, I think." he said with a rueful half-grin.

"We shall see," she murmured. She sat down, and began to run her hands over his boot, feeling the injured ankle beneath the soft leather, saying nothing while her fingers gently probed the swollen tissue. Gently, she lowered his foot back onto the ledge, and without a word, disappeared behind a curve in the cavern wall, taking the candle with her. Maeldhuin waited in dim glow of the brazier. After a few moments the room grew bright again and his hostess returned bearing a tankard. "Drink this," she said.

He eyed the cup and its contents suspiciously. "What is it?" he asked.

"A simple sleeping draught." She noted his wary expression, and sparks of amusement danced in her eyes. "It is quite harmless, I give you my word on it."

He sniffed at the potion and his nose wrinkled at the cloying scent. "What is in it?"

Gilthaethil maintained her bemused expression. "Poppy, rosemary, honey ... and other things."

Maeldhuin scowled stubbornly. "Nay, I will have none of it." 

"Suit yourself," she said, with an air of unconcerned superiority. "You can play the brave warrior, if you like.  Let me assure you, however, that this will hurt. You can suffer, or you can spare yourself the pain by drinking that infusion, and sleeping until morning. The choice is yours."

Maeldhuin felt decidedly put out by this wood sprite's condescending airs. Who was she to address him thus? There was little enough in her appearance to inspire confidence. For all he knew, she may be in league with the Enemy. His hand travelled to the pouch he wore next to his skin, and he fingered the outline of the tokens within. Best he keep his wits in such dubious surroundings. He held the cup out to her. "I do not wish to sleep, I have a task to complete."

"Oh, aye?" She tugged lightly on his boot. Maeldhuin winced and could not hold back a gasp of pain. "Your task will have to wait, I think. Now, will you drink, or will you suffer? It is all one and the same to me."

Maeldhuin gritted his teeth. "I do not fear pain."

"As you wish." She knelt by his side, and began unlacing his boot. The stranger's jaw was rigid, and his breathing harsh. Tears gathered in the corners of his clear grey eyes, but he stubbornly blinked them away.

With a quick glance, Gilthaethil measured the distance between them. She drew back her fist, and struck him squarely on the jaw. Maeldhuin's eyes opened wide in surprise, then rolled back into his head as he collapsed against the furs. Gilthaethil rubbed her knuckles. "Warriors!" she sniffed, and chuckling quietly, she set to work. 

* * *

**_To be continued_**


	4. Of Twilight and Shadows

**Chapter Four - _Of Twilight and Shadows_**

A persistent pounding drew Maeldhuin from his dreams, away from the shadows where he had wandered in a troubled half-sleep, and back into full, if reluctant, wakefulness. The dreamworld dissolved replaced by the shadowy contours of the cavern, and by the memory of the events that had led him to this place.

He wondered how long he had slept.  There was little light in the cavern to suggest the passage of the hours.  The brazier had burned low and only a dim glow shone in from the top of the passageway to bring a hint of daylight to the subterranean gloom.

The sound that had awakened him continued unbroken and he cast his gaze about the room to find its source.  In a candlelit recess in the opposite wall, he spied his benefactress, sitting hunched over a table, grinding seeds in a small stone mortar.  So intent on her work was she, that she did not sense him watching her, until, her work nearly done, she shook a strand of hair from her eyes, and happened to cross his watchful gaze.

"Good morrow, stranger," she said in greeting, disguising her moment of surprise.  "You slept soundly."

"Aye," he grumbled, rubbing a spot of his chin that seemed unaccountably sore.  "I suspect you had a hand in that."

A hand indeed, Gilthaethil mused, or a fist rather, and she stretched the tender muscles of her hand, hoping the shadows would hide the secret gesture from his view.   She had no wish to give the surly traveller the satisfaction of being proven right, and so she merely tossed him a pleasant smile and said not a word about it.

"What is the time?"

"Two hours past sunrise."

"So late?"  Maeldhuin, alarmed, raised himself on his elbows.  "I must be gone."  He swept away his covering of furs, blanched, then drew them quickly to his chin.  Beneath the furs, he was completely naked.  But more troubling than the absence of his clothing was the absence of the pouch and letters he had carried.

"Your garments are drying over a fire outside my door."

Maeldhuin sat up straight, while his eyes darted anxiously about the room. "I had a..."

She smiled.  "Your pouch?"

He nodded wordlessly while his heart filled with dread, and shame and failure burned in his cheeks.  She had it and all was now lost.  Why had his gift of foresight failed him?  How had he failed to sense the danger?  Falathar's trust in him had been misplaced, and his desperate sacrifice, in vain.

_From the moment they had abandoned Duilin's body, Maeldhuin and his master had never once stopped running.  Forsaking the path, they had picked their way through gullies, streams, and tangled undergrowth, hoping either to outrun their pursuers, or to outwit them_. _But the orcs, it seemed, had predicted their every move_, _had met them at every turn, and the chase drew ever nearer and ever the more desperate._

_They stood now, ankle deep in the swirling eddies of a swift mountain stream, listening to the raucous cries in the distance.  Now and again, a harsh shout sounded above the din, sending icy chills down Maeldhuin's spine._

_The elder herald rested a hand on Maeldhuin's shoulder.  "We cannot continue thus," he had said between halting breaths.  "Our only hope is to part ways."_

_Maeldhuin's sombre gaze had grown wide in dismay.  "Nay!"_

_"Listen.  They will not track us so easily if we give them two clear paths to follow._  _Reaching into his tabard, he had then drawn out a small pouch and a sealed packet of oiled leather.  "Take them," he had said, pressing them into Maeldhuin's trembling hands, "for you are fleeter of foot than am I.  You must value them above your life for they are the safeguards of our people.  If your situation becomes dire..."_

_Maeldhuin had given a grim laugh.  "How can it possibly become any worse than it is now?"_

_"Hush, lad and mark well my words.  If you fear you will be taken or killed, and all hope of escape is lost, you must do all you can to keep these tokens out of the Enemy's hands.  Hide the pouch that it might never be found: bury it, or cast it into the deep, then burn the letters and scatter the ashes._  _But only if there is no other hope."_

_"But where?  How?"_

_"Trust your heart.  Do what seems right.  If all goes well, I will meet you on the morrow at midday."  He pointed to the crest of a nearby hill.  "There is a spring atop that hill, and in the shadow of the surrounding trees, a cavern where one may lie unseen.  Meet me there, if you can."_

_"And if you are not there?"_

_"Wait for me, but do not wait overlong.  If I am not there by the dawn of the second day, tarry no longer.  Make for the Havens and seek for me there.  If I have not come, seek Lord Círdan's counsel.  He will tell you where to find the King.  But keep on your guard, always.  The Lord of the Havens is counted among the wisest of our race, and while you may tell him something of our plight, tell the full tale to none save the King.  Age-old grudges still fester between Círdan's house and the heirs of Fëanor."_

_Maeldhuin's heart was heavy with grief and fear.  "Master, I beseech you, do not make me do this alone."_

_"There is no one else, Maeldhuin.  This is what you were trained to do.  Do not allow your fears to turn you from your duty."_

_"But why must we part ways?"_

_"You have ever been quicker than I, and bolder.  My long years have made me too cautious.  For this task, speed and the recklessness of youth are better suited.  I know full well that I cannot hope to deceive the orcs for long, but I may succeed in drawing them off your trail for a short while.  Valar willing, by the time they have discovered our ruse, your light feet will have carried you far from these accursed hills._"

_Maeldhuin's voice had grown plaintive.  "You speak of my duty, but what of yours?_ _Celebrimbor has ever placed his trust in you.  I am nothing to him."_

_Falathar's eyes flashed in anger. "Do not presume to teach me my duty! My first duty is to the message, and to the tokens we bear."  He sighed wearily, and when he spoke again, his voice could scarce be heard over the rushing waters.  "Think you this choice comes easy?    I swore an oath, the same which I must now break.  Let not my oathbreaking be in vain."_

_Hot tears had stung Maeldhuin's eyes.  But he had clasped the messages and tokens to his breast, and bowed deeply before his master.  "I will do my duty, Master.  I will neither fail the mission, nor the trust which you have place in me."_

_A fatherly smile had played on Falathar's stern features.  "I know you will not, my lad.  Remember; deliver our tokens into the King's hands only.  Now, away with you. Be gone!"_

Maeldhuin's thoughts returned to the present.  He blinked the bitter tears of failure and frustration from his eyes, squared his shoulders, and presented a proud face to his gaoler.

"The object you seek is under your pillow," she smiled, "as is the oilskin packet you wore in the lining of your tabard."

Cautiously, he slipped a hand beneath the pillow.  Only when his hands closed around the two familiar shapes did he allow himself a deep breath of relief.  He drew the packages out from their hiding place, and minutely examined them for signs of tampering.  A single strand of frayed silken thread, a missing sliver of wax would tell if other eyes had beheld his messages.  Search as he might, however, he found nothing amiss.  The intricate silk knots, the eight-rayed star of Celebrimbor's seal: both were intact!  Maeldhuin clutched the precious objects to his breast, closed his eyes, and whispered a prayer of thanks.  When he opened his eyes again, Gilthaethil had vanished.

She reappeared a moment later, bearing, trenchers, cups, and a large platter heaped high with bread, fruit, nuts, golden butter, heavy cream, and a thick comb of rich amber honey. She set the tray down next to her guest, and ducked out of sight again, returning this time with a stoneware jug, from which she poured a clear beverage.  "'Tis past time you broke your long fast," she said.  

"Lady..." Maeldhuin began uncomfortably.  "I... well, that is..."

Gilthaethil's eyes twinkled with mild amusement as she handed him a wooden trencher. "No words of thanks are necessary.  Your gratitude is writ plain all over your face.  Now eat!"

Maeldhuin felt the flush return to his face.  Dragons take her!  He had always prided himself on being master of his emotions, and here, in the space of an hour, she had twice reduced him to a state of blushing stupidity.  He threw her a dubious look, then, turning his attention to the breakfast feast laid before him, tore off a heel of bread, and started eating.

Gilthaethil drew a stool to his side, and joined him as he broke his fast.  What a creature of contrasts, she chuckled inwardly: chivalrous, proud, fair-spoken one instant, then fearful and wary as a caged animal the next.  What strange doings had led him to her doorstep, she wondered.

Maeldhuin shifted uncomfortably under the intensity of Gilthaethil's gaze.  The way she watched him without saying a word made him unaccountably self‑conscious, and he gave a sharp tug on the fur covers.  As he did so, the pouch fell to the cavern floor.

Gilthaethil stooped to retrieve it, but as soon as she closed her fingers about it, Maeldhuin seized her wrist.  "My apologies," she said, and uncurled her fingers. 

"Leave it! It is not yours!" he hissed as he snatched the prize away.

But neither, she guessed, was it his.   A score of questions raced through her mind.  Whatever treasure the traveller carried, she doubted not that heavy grief and great sorrow were bound withal.   She perceived that shadows dwelt about the stranger's heart, too deep for her simple care to dispel.  She could however prevent them from disturbing the quietude of her refuge and resolved to set him on his way the moment he were fit to travel again. 

The silence grew, interrupted only by the sounds of eating.  Gilthaethil, accustomed as she was to her own company, did not seem to mind, but the courier found the stillness increasingly oppressive.  Finally he could bear it no longer, and had to speak. 

"You never did say why you took my clothes," he muttered.  "Only my foot was injured." Traces of suspicion lingered in his gaze, lending an air of petulance to his fair and solemn features.

Gilthaethil set aside her trencher and smiled.   "I have no windows in this cavern. You were rather, ehm… pungent.  I realized I had but two choices: either to wash you and your clothes, or to let the fearsome stench drive me from the comfort of my home." 

Maeldhuin was indignant! "Nay! Surely, I did not stink!"

"Aye, you did.  You fairly reeked of fear and death, two odours I cannot abide, and will not tolerate while I am guardian here."  Maeldhuin, rendered speechless, could not fail to note the grim undertone in her speech.  He realized his surge of anger had been misplaced, for certainly the smell of fear had been heavy upon him.  

He finished his meal, keeping his thoughts to himself.  He was licking the last of the honey off his fingers when he noticed that the pain in his foot had almost completely disappeared. "My ankle?" he asked.

"Not broken," Gilthaethil answered through a last mouthful of bread. "Badly sprained, though. It will be tender for a few days. I have splinted and bound it to help it heal faster."

"You have my thanks again.  As soon as my clothes are dry, I will take my leave and trouble you no more."

"Leave?" she choked.  "How do you intend to travel?  You cannot walk, and have no horse. You must rest, and let your injury heal before continuing on your way."

"I would, if my time were my own, but I am in great haste, and can afford no further delay."

 "Whatever your errand, it will have to wait. You are in no fit state to travel."

"I do not expect one such as yourself to understand.  Suffice it to say that I am on a mission of the utmost urgency.  I must reach the King without delay."

"The King?" she snorted, "I daresay even His Majesty will have to do without the pleasure of your company for a day or two longer.  You must rest and heal."  She dismissed any further protests, and proceeded to examine his ankle with strong, deft hands. Pleased with her findings, she disappeared up the tunnel, returning seconds later with his clothing.   "I must leave you for a while.  I too have an urgent errand.   You have food and drink to last you the day.  You are welcome to aught else you may require.  Do as you will while I am away, but do not stray from the safety of the cave."

Maeldhuin's face froze. "Am I your prisoner, then?  Do you think you can hold me captive in the hope of ransoming me?

Gilthaethil started to chuckle, and, though she tried to control it, the sound of her laughter soon filled the cavern.   "Prisoner?  You are my guest, and my patient.  I would hold you here in the hope of keeping you alive! You are free to stay, or to go, as you will.  But lest you choose ill in your haste to leave, mind that these woods are swarming with all manner of beasts.  Injured as you are, I doubt not you will be an easy prey for some hungry creature."  She could not help but notice the wariness in the stranger's eyes. "Set your fears aside for a brief time. This cave is well concealed." Then, before she changed her mind, she spun away, and sped up the tunnel.  "Look for me ere nightfall," she called from the doorstep, and vanished.

"Wait," Maeldhuin cried into the silence.  But his hostess had disappeared, and his only reply was the echo of his own frustration.

* * *

It was later than she expected when Gilthaethil returned.  The sun had just dipped below the crest of the western hills, and the sentinel trees cast long shadows over the floor of the glade

"You're late.  I was beginning to wonder if you would ever return."

Gilthaethil started, and spun around to find Maeldhuin sitting immobile at the foot of a tree, his injured foot resting on a moss‑covered stone.  

Gilthaethil did not enjoy surprises.  She placed the kestrel on its perch, and, hoping to conceal her discomfiture, turned her attention to the spring instead.  She splashed cold water onto her neck and face, until she had once again mastered her emotions.  Only then, after wiping away the traces of the day's toil on the cuff of her sleeve, did she deign to address her surly guest. "I did not mean to worry you.  My errand took me farther afield than I had foreseen." She unclasped a cup from her belt, and dipped it into the water, spilled a few drops on the mossy ground, and swallowed the rest.  

She filled the cup again and held out her hand.  Maeldhuin paused a moment, eyeing the cup's strange carvings with suspicion, then shrugging, he took it and drank.  "Thank-you," he said, and handed the cup back to its owner.  As she took it, Gilthaethil noted the slight tremor in his hands, and the deep shadows beneath his eyes.  

"You should be resting," she said.  "Are you in much pain?" 

Maeldhuin forced a smile onto his lips, but his features held not a trace of mirth.  "There is no pain, Lady.  I am quite well."  

"Your eyes give the lie to your tongue," she said, but pressed him no further.  She let herself sink to the mossy ground on the opposite side of the tree, and watched the western sky above the hills pass from day to dusk to dark.  

After a long weary day, with only his fears for company, Maeldhuin felt soothed by Gilthaethil's tranquil presence.  He wished she might lend him some of her serenity, that it may still the roiling doubt that troubled his mind.  He ran his hands over the mossy floor, picking through wind fallen bits of branches and scattered wood, until he found a twisted branch to distract him.  He turned it over in his hands this way and that, examined it closely and, judging the wood sound, he drew out his knife, and began paring away thin layers.

He tried to focus his thoughts on revealing the shape hidden inside, but his heart was not in his work.   As he had done all day since he had first hobbled out of the cave, Maeldhuin raised his eyes to the eastern horizon, to the fingers of deep shadow that seemed to claw their way westward, to darken the twilight sky, and blot out the first stars of evening.  He measured their length against the distant hills, and shuddered.  Surely the shadow could not have reached so far so soon.  "_A Elbereth Gilthoniel_," he whispered beneath his breath.

Gilthaethil twisted around. "You spoke?"

"Nay, `twas nothing." And with an effort of will, turned his eyes, if not thoughts, back to the shape emerging beneath his knife.  It was still too soon to tell what it might be, so he let the wood guide his blade while his mind lingered on darker thoughts.  Please the Valar; his master may have eluded the Orcs.  But, if Falathar had fallen, if he were taken, the success of the mission, and the fate of his people, would rest solely upon him.  And the weight of it, he feared, would prove too great for him to bear.     

He swallowed hard to ease the tightness in his throat.  How he yearned to shed his burden!  He raised his head from his work, and was surprised to find Gilthaethil sitting before him.

With a nod, she indicated the shape he gripped tightly in his hand. "'Tis a cheery little bauble you have crafted there, my friend."

In shock and disgust, he beheld the shape he had crafted.  In his palm lay the roughly fashioned shape of a gnarled hand, with twisted claws at the end of misshapen, knotted fingers.  As if he held a burning ember, he hurled the repulsive object deep into the darkness beneath the trees, and buried his face in his hands.

Gilthaethil reached for his shoulder. "What is it, Duilin?  Why will you not free yourself of the troubles that haunt you?"

The courier shied away from her touch. "Who... what are you?  Why do you call me by that name?" 

She smiled, and reached a fingertip to the medallion at his throat.  "Your name is engraved on your pendant."

Maeldhuin turned his head, hiding his face as he closed his fingers tightly about the medallion.  Gilthaethil did not understand.   "What is wrong?  Have I said aught amiss?" 

"Duilin was my kinsman.  He... he is dead... slain by Orcs three days ago, and lies unburied, somewhere in these accursed hills!"  He brushed away the tears with a sharp gesture.  "... I took this pendant as a token of remembrance.  That is all."

For the first time since he had stumbled into her glade, he saw Gilthaethil's composure falter.  "I am sorry.  I... I did not know..."

"How could you?" 

"Who are you, then?"

He sat up straight, and raised his head proudly.  "I am called Maeldhuin.  I am a herald in the service of Lord Celebrimbor of Eregion, far to the east of these hills," he said, forcing a smile upon his lips.  But his voice shook as he continued.  "Do not trouble yourself for my sake, I pray you.  My mind has ever been prey to my fancies. They are wont, at times, to overrule my reason."

 "'Tis no trouble, Maeldhuin of Eregion.  I tend this well as and all who seek aid and comfort here.  'Tis my sacred duty to help you."

"You are a priestess, then?"

"Nay," she smiled. "Nothing so grand.  But I have some skill as a healer, enough to care for the injured beasts that are sent this way."

"Sent?"

"Aye, as you were. You could have injured yourself anywhere in these hills, but fate led you here, where a healer waited nearby."

Maeldhuin paused to consider her words.  When again he spoke, his voice had lost its edge.  "Tell me, Lady, does your art let you heal wounds of the spirit? Have you a salve that will dissolve fears?  A draught to drive shadows from the mind?" 

Tears gathered in the corners of Gilthaethil's eyes. "I have borne my share of troubles.  I know something of grief and fear.  I would help you bear the sorrows that weigh so heavily upon you.   If they be but foolish fancies, they will vanish in the light of day."

"And if they be real?"

"Then the burden will be lighter with two to shoulder the weight."

Her voice faded away, and a tranquil silence fell over the glade that he could not bring himself to break.  For a long time, Maeldhuin stared at his hands.  His voice, when finally he spoke, could scarce be heard above the whisper of the evening wind.  "You have guessed something of my flight, Lady, but not reasons for it, nor of the storm that unfurled at our backs as my companions and I fled our City."

The grief-laden words spilled out, and Gilthaethil listened without interrupting.  Maeldhuin spoke of all that had befallen him, keeping only the purpose of his mission secret.  He spoke of the shadow that cast his home into darkness, of the summons from their lord, and of the desperate race west.  Of his cousin's loss and his parting from Falathar, he could speak only briefly before the pain of his losses constricted his throat.  As his tale drew to a close, his thoughts returned to the storm they had ridden.

"The ground shook the very roots of the mountains, and the wind howled with the voice of every fell beast in creation.  When it seemed the Foe could inflict no further cruelty upon our broken city, fires rained down from above, bolts of blood‑red lightning tore across the skies, leaving smouldering ruin wherever they struck.  I could but watch helplessly from several leagues away. And as I watched, it seemed to me I could hear the anguished cries of my people carried on the eastern wind. 

"Falathar dismissed my fears, as did Duilin, but for all their brave talk, I know that they too heard the cries. I cannot shake this growing dread that my city has been destroyed, and that all that I have ever known and loved has perished in the wreck."

"But now," Gilthaethil asked, "where is Falathar?" 

"I know not. I fear some evil has befallen him.  We were to meet here yesterday at midday.  I waited nearby, but he never came. Then the Orcs caught my scent, and, well, you know the rest."

"They followed you here."

"Truly, I am sorry.  I swear it was not my intent to lead them here."

Gilthaethil dismissed his apology with a wave of her hand.  "You claim to have some measure of foresight.  Know you aught to warrant your fears?"

"I am certain of nothing, Lady, save the urgency of our plight."

She pondered his words a moment and then rose to her feet.  "In a day or two, when your ankle is stronger, I will lead you to the King." 

The herald started. "Nay, I cannot delay, I must leave at dawn."

"Very well then, we shall leave on the morrow."

"You do not understand... I travel alone."

"You are not fit to travel alone.  Besides, I know the secrets of these hills, and can lead you by ways known only to myself."

Maeldhuin said nothing. While he felt no evil in her, still, he knew nothing of her identity, her people, or her allegiance.  How could he trust her? He had read of strange beings, spirits of air and earth and water, who, with the help of their familiars, ensnared unwary travellers, and lured them to their dooms. Might she be one such creature?  Ruefully, he considered how easily she had captured and held him.  And yet...

He observed her as she busied herself about the glade, gathering wood, and building a fire for the evening meal.  At first he had thought her to be one of his own race, though certainly of lesser lineage than his, but now as he studied her more closely, he began to doubt she was even an Elf.  True she was fair, and tall, and slender, as were all the race of the First Born, but, in truth, she seemed more akin to the wild deer of the forest, than to any of the Eldar.  Her hair was neither the gold nor sable usually seen among his kind, but of a deep russet that blazed even in the pale starlight, and escaped in fiery tendrils from the thick braid she wore down her back.  Nor were her eyes the usual starlit grey, but dark as forest pools, and certainly as treacherous.

Watching her toss a handful of roots into a small cauldron, Maeldhuin considered her raiment, for it too was most unusual.  She wore a rough rust‑coloured tunic belted over layered skirts of the same earthen tones, travel‑worn boots, and over her shoulders, a knitted cowl that had been thrown back. A wide belt held at her waist a variety of pouches, tools, and the strange cup he had drunk from only moments before. A shiver travelled down his spine.  Had she...? Nay, he was still alive, unharmed, and had yet all his wits about him.  

She had offered to take him to the King, and at first he had thought she was mocking him.  Now, after consideration, he deemed her offer sincere, albeit naive.  He did not doubt that she may have some renown in these parts, but it was preposterous to think that it would prove sufficient to gain her admission to the King's presence. 

Gilthaethil left fire pit and the meal that bubbled invitingly in the pot.  She strode over to the perch allowing the kestrel to leap onto her outstretched arm, and strode over to Maeldhuin's side. She waited a moment before speaking, smiling inwardly as doubts and questions flickered across the messenger's face.  "You need not fear me, Maeldhuin, I do not serve the Darkness."  

Maeldhuin felt the heat rush to his cheeks.  "I would know, lady, if my every thought is written so plainly on my face?"

"The King knows me well enough," she continued wryly, ignoring his question.  " I think he will condescend to grant us an audience this one time, even to such a wilding as myself."

Maeldhuin stared open-mouthed, his eyes darting from the oddly carved cup at her belt, to the bird on her wrist, to the iron cauldron across the glade, before resting in her deep compelling gaze. "A sorceress you are!  You must be.  How else are all my thoughts laid bare to you?"

She laughed, and her features softened.  In spite of his deep misgivings, Maeldhuin felt himself relax, and he wondered how deeply under her  spell he had fallen.  Her dark eyes twinkled, and he thought he saw the stars reflected there. "I cannot read minds," she said, "but behaviour is easily deciphered.  You are no different than any other living creature.  You are curious, yet fearful.  You wish to trust me because I eased your pain, yet, dare not because I am not of your kind."

"In your eyes, then, I am no better than some lowly beast?" And to his astonishment, he began to laugh.  He felt the fears fall away from him.  He doubted not that he were under some kind of enchantment, but knew that he was powerless to resist.

Gilthaethil's her features danced with mirth.  "No better than any other wild creature, but I will give you the benefit of the doubt, and presume you are no worse either."  She extended her hand, and helped Maeldhuin to his feet. 

As he struggled for balance, a sudden troubling thought, chased the smile from his lips. "What of the Orcs that pursued me here?"

"They have followed your trail down into the southern plains."

Confusion creased the messenger's brow.  "But you are mistaken, Lady.  My journey led me ever westward. Here.  I never went south."

Gilthaethil grinned.  "I know that, but if the Orcs should choose to believe otherwise, who am I to correct them?"                                                                                                                                

"You are full of surprises, Lady.  Again I find myself in your debt."                                            

"It is settled then.  We leave on the morrow."   

There was little to be gained in arguing. Maeldhuin squared his shoulders, pulled the shreds of his dignity about him, and bowed as low as he dared to, short of risking another humiliating tumble into the pool.  "I shall consider myself honoured to travel in your company, Lady."

* * *

To be continued 


	5. The Lord of the Havens

**Chapter Five - _The Lord of the Havens_ **

The hilltop clearing lay shrouded in mist. A thick fog blanketed the mossy floor, drifted around the softly bubbling fountain, swirled about the knees of the ancient trees, and hung in tattered shreds from the overhanging limbs and branches. In an hour or two, the morning sun would burn it all off, and restore an earthly air to the clearing. But for now, sunlight had not yet reached the crest of the hill, and the glade, in its shrouded stillness, appeared to be not quite of this world. 

Two figures materialized out of a fold in the earth. Cloaked and hooded in the same foggy hue, they went about their business so quietly and with such an economy of gesture, that mortal eyes would have seen little more than a slight shifting of the wind. 

Gilthaethil knelt by the spring. After a moment of silence, she unclasped the cup she wore at her waist, dipped it in the water, and spilled a few drops on the ground. She filled a pair of water skins, then filled her cup again and rose to her feet. Circling the clearing, she sprinkled water from her well along the margins of the forest wall and before the door of her dwelling. Maeldhuin watched in silence, having no desire to interrupt the ritual. 

"It is done," she said a moment later, and handed a skin to Maeldhuin. He eyed it warily before slinging it over his shoulder. And then, as the first grey light crept into the clearing, Gilthaethil put two fingers to her lips, gave a long, low whistle, and waited. 

There was no answer at first, but after a short time, there appeared out of the mists a great stag, silent as a ghost, white as the snows, and as proud of bearing as any king of Elves or Men. The majestic animal stepped into the clearing and lowered his head to Gilthaethil. Watching the scene unfold, Maeldhuin could not help but wonder, yet again, what strange manner of being his benefactress might be.

Gilthaethil acknowledged the stag's obeisance, and laid a hand on its head. For a timeless moment, nothing stirred. Then the stag shook its antlers and broke the spell. The air began to move again, and life returned to the forest. Gilthaethil strode over to the door of the cavern where Maeldhuin stood frozen in awe. "Come," she said. "He has consented to bear us."

"But..but how is it that this animal does your bidding?" Maeldhuin stammered, not daring to give voice to his suspicions.

"I plucked an arrow from his shoulder when he was yet a faun," she answered, hitching her pack onto her shoulders. "He is a lord of the forest now, so take care to mind your manners." 

Maeldhuin bristled at her superior tone. He was tempted to remind her that, being a herald, he needed no schooling in protocol. He held his tongue, however, and setting aside his injured pride, he bowed respectfully to the stag. Then, at a gesture from his companion, he grabbed hold of the animal's antlers, and swung himself onto its back. Gilthaethil leapt up behind him, with the kestrel perched upon her wrist, and to the accompaniment of the first lark of morning, they passed beneath the eaves of the forest, and disappeared into the mists. 

They journeyed westward, over rolling hills, across glades thick with spring flowers, and through groves of beech and fir where the trees rose so tall and straight, they seemed to pierce the clouds. With little guidance from either Maeldhuin or Gilthaethil, the stag picked its way through the forest. Maeldhuin had briefly questioned the wisdom of this, but a single scathing look from his companion was all it took to assure him that their course ran true.

Ever as they travelled, Maeldhuin scoured the deep shadows beneath the trees for some trace of his master, but no sign did he see, either of Falathar, or of the Orcs that had pursued him. He shuddered to think what might have befallen the herald, and could only hope that he had managed to evade his pursuers, and that he might at this very moment, be cursing his dawdling protégé from the safety of Mithlond's high walls.

Gilthaethil sensed Maeldhuin's trouble. Hoping to draw him away from his dark imaginings, she asked him about home and his travels. He was glad of the distraction and described for her the wonders of Ost-en-Edhil. He told her of his travels near and far, describing even a journey he had made to the distant shores of Númenor. "I remember," he said, grinning, "how my elders, and even the Wise of the Edain warned me against that journey, fearing I would hearken the call of the sea, and forswear my oath. But ever have I followed my own counsel."

At his back, Gilthaethil snorted. Maeldhuin twisted 'round only to be faced with an indulgent smile. "Pray continue." 

"Aye, well, ... as I was saying, I journeyed across the sea, and tarried a while in the land of Númenor. There, as I wandered among the western hills, it seemed to me that the ocean breeze carried a scent of flowers, perhaps the flowers of Valinor." 

"Did you not wish to follow and join your people in the Undying Lands?" 

"I heard the call, and I would be lying, if I said it did not awaken in my heart a desire to see those shores. Yet, I was still young then, and filled with wonder, and would not heed the call when all I cherished was here." 

"Do you still feel that way?" 

Maeldhuin paused. "My duty to my lord and to my people binds me to these mortal lands." 

"Duty only? What of your loved ones?"

"They remained in Ost-en-Edhil," he answered softly. "What of you," he asked, trying to shake off his gloom. "What stories can you tell? I am weary of talking of my own deeds. Have you no tales of your own to tell?" 

"I lead a quiet life." 

"Have you never travelled? 

"Who would tend the spring if I heeded the call of every passing adventure? While I am keeper of the well, I have little leisure for journeying." 

"But how came you there? Who chose you? Did your family tend the well before you?" 

Gilthaethil paused while deciding which of the herald's questions she would answer. "All the family I have lives in Mithlond." 

"You are of the Falathrim, then, or perhaps of the Teleri?" The herald's voice fairly sang with relief. 

Gilthaethil stiffened. "That is not what I said. As for travels," she continued, more tersely than before, "I know these hills and the lands from here to the Sea, but little else. There was never any need for me to journey farther." 

"I have journeyed to Mithlond before. Might I have seen you there on some earlier errand?" 

"Mithlond is not my home. I doubt it ever was." Gilthaethil's tone did not invite any further questions, and for the next while, the pair travelled in silence.

They emerged from the trees in time to watch the moon rise over a wide valley dotted with farmsteads, orchards, and rich pasturelands. Gilthaethil slid off the stag's back, stretched, and gazed pensively into the distance. "We must dismount here," she said, and pointed to a twin cluster of lights twinkling over silver waters. "Yonder lie the River Lhûn and the Havens of Mithlond. Can you can walk that far?"

Maeldhuin dismounted and took a few careful steps. "I can walk... after a fashion." His ankle was still sore, but, healing. Bound and splinted as it was, it would bear his weight. He looked around and found a sturdy branch for support. "I am ready." 

They bowed their thanks to the stag, who nodded once and disappeared into the forest shadows. 

"Will the sentries let us pass after nightfall?" Maeldhuin asked.

"They will let me pass," Gilthaethil answered, then grinned. "You, however, I cannot say." 

Mithlond was the oldest of the Elven cities east of the Misty Mountains. In the dark, confused years following the Ruin of Beleriand, Círdan the Shipwright had removed the surviving remnant of his people to the twin harbours on the River Lhûn. There, where the waters broadened to a wide Gulf, the Shipbuilders established their havens. 

Círdan's city was, above all else, a city of seafarers, and it drew both life and livelihood from the waters that bathed its shores. Its port and shipyards served all the free races, procuring vessels, not only to the Eldar journeying to the Undying Lands, but also to the Men and Dwarves who sought trade between Númenor and Middle Earth. Not all were drawn solely by Mithlond's safe anchorages and graceful grey ships, however. As the Havens grew in size, so too did they increase in beauty and renown. Scholars and lore masters sought out her houses of learning, while mystics and clerics sought enlightenment in her temples and holy places.

The sun was high in the sky when the two travellers reached the Western Gate, and Gilthaethil directed Maeldhuin to a bench of carved stone while she presented herself to the sentries. Maeldhuin's ankle was throbbing after the night's long walk, and he welcomed the opportunity to rest. "Ask if they have news of Master Falathar," he called. Gilthaethil nodded and strode quickly towards the Gatehouse. Maeldhuin tilted his head back against the stone. He closed his eyes, and listened to the sounds of City as they cascaded gently over the walls, beckoning to him with the promise of warmth and welcome. 

"On your feet, Fëanorian!" 

Maeldhuin eyes flew open, and he found himself in the centre of a ring of spears. Forcing himself to remain calm, he stood up slowly. Gilthaethil stood some distance removed, shrugging her shoulders, and shaking her head in a gesture of helplessness. 

With a sharp gesture, the Captain directed one of his guards to Maeldhuin's side. "Drop the stick!" he ordered. 

Gilthaethil stepped forward. "He is injured. He needs the staff for support."

The guard considered this briefly. "Very well, so long as you are willing to answer for his actions, my Lady. But if he should try anything clever..." 

Maeldhuin tried to take a step forward, but the guard at his side, held him back. "I will not, I assure you. Only, tell me, what offense have I committed? Why am I being taken thus?" 

The Captain addressed his reply to Gilthaethil. "There have been strange rumblings from the East, my Lady. The Lord Caredhel has ordered that all strangers be apprehended for questioning." 

"I am no stranger here," Maeldhuin cried, "but a messenger from Lord Celebrimbor of Eregion. I have been in this city before and I demand treatment befitting my rank!"

"Save it for the Lord Caredhel. Now move!"

***

The chamberlain cleared his throat and pushed open a pair of intricately carved oak doors. "My Lord, the Lord High Constable of Mithlond seeks admittance. "

A deeply annoyed voice sounded from behind a tall stack of books. "Blasts and fogs! What does he want of me this time!" A clatter of armour and booted feet precluded any further study, and so the owner of the voice resignedly stepped into view, carrying an armload of ancient scrolls. 

He was tall, even for an Elf, and was dressed in a dusty blue tunic, and scuffed boots. He had long silver hair, tied back with a simple leather thong, and a neatly trimmed beard, of silver also. His well-muscled arms and rolling gait marked him as a mariner. The light of wisdom that shone in his startlingly blue gaze identified him as Círdan, Lord of the Falathrim, Shipwright of the Eldar, and ruler of Mithlond and the surrounding lands.

With an elegant sweep of his richly trimmed cloak, the Lord High Constable executed a deep bow. "My Lord, we intercepted this Fëanorian spy loitering by our gates." 

At these words, Gilthaethil strode forwards. Her dark eyes flashed in anger and her voice was brittle with rage. "Loitering?" she repeated. "He was resting whilst I presented myself to the sentries."

The Constable continued, nonplused. "The Lady Gilthaethil claims he is a messenger from the East."

Maeldhuin spun around. Gilthaethil? Was that her name? The Constable appeared to know her, and treated her with a certain measure of respect. Falathar had warned him of the resentment and mistrust that had long ago soured relations between Círdan's folk and his own. Had Gilthaethil betrayed him to her kin? 

The Constable was describing the circumstances of the arrest, embellishing the tale to his advantage, Maeldhuin realized. In fact, as he examined his accuser, he gave a grim laugh, noting that the Constable seemed to be no stranger to embellishments of any sort. 

"Is there aught of your circumstances that amuses you, Fëanorian?" the Constable hissed, and resumed his epic telling of the prisoner's arrest. 

Maeldhuin, for the moment ignored, continued to study his accuser. The Constable's rich garments and proud bearing showed him to be one who was accustomed to wealth and power, and his cold gaze told him he would not hesitate to wield them to their full extent. Their eyes met briefly, and Maeldhuin detected a look of unmingled scorn in the functionary's look. He drew himself to his full height, raised his chin and squared his shoulders.  For all his humble attire, he was no beggar. He was proud to wear the livery of Eregion, travel worn though it may be, and would not allow some soft-handed coxcomb to dismiss him with a condescending glance. 

Doing his best to ignore the harsh grip of his guards and the throbbing ache in his ankle, Maeldhuin stood up tall, and cast about the room what he hoped would pass for a disinterested gaze. Although he had been to Mithlond before, this was the first time he had been admitted to Círdan's private study. If he had expected to find himself surrounded by ethereal opulence and ages-old splendour, the disordered clutter quickly dispelled any such preconceptions. Indeed, the room resembled more closely a artisan's workshop than the council chambers of the wise. 

The Shipwright perceived Maeldhuin's bewilderment, and a flicker of amusement played briefly in his sea blue eyes. As soon as the Constable finished his report, Círdan strode over to where Gilthaethil stood, and welcomed her with a warm embrace. "My dear child!" What a delightful surprise! I did not expect to see you again before the winter!" He drew a chair, which Gilthaethil ignored.

"I had not intended to visit again so soon, my lord, but we have a pressing errand. May I present my companion, Master Maeldhuin of Eregion? He bears an important message from the Lord Celebrimbor."

"From Celebrimbor, you say?" Círdan's features darkened at the name.

Maeldhuin bowed his head. It was all the reverence the tight grip of the guards would allow. 

Gilthaethil fumed. "Oh, by the heavens, will you not release him? Consider his raiment, if you will not believe me. It may be somewhat the worse for wear, but it is still the livery of Eregion, and shows him to be who he claims to be." 

Círdan nodded wordlessly. The guards released their captive, and withdrew to the margins of the room. 

Maeldhuin bowed deeply, and began. "Hail! Sage Círdan, Lord of the Fala …"

"Bah! Save your flowery phrases for court, boy. What is your errand?"

The Constable cast Maeldhuin a look of cold disapproval. He drew close to Gilthaethil, and in mocking tones he whispered, "So, Gilthaethil, what is this latest stray you've dragged home?" Gilthaethil's retort was too quiet for Maeldhuin to hear, but the daggers in her eyes eloquently revealed the tenor of her reply. 

Maeldhuin remembered the task at hand, bowed his thanks, then straightened his back and took a hesitant step towards the Lord of the Havens. "My Lord, I carry an urgent message for His Majesty the King. My companions and I have travelled in great haste through paths fraught with peril. I can afford no delay. I come to ask your aid in..."

Círdan held up a hand, and halted Maeldhuin's speech. "Why are you limping?"

"'Tis nothing, my Lord."

Gilthaethil interrupted. "He was injured escaping from a band of marauding Orcs. One of his companions was killed, and of the other, we have had no tidings, and fear he has been taken."

Círdan's features softened slightly. "Do you require a healer?"

"Nay, my Lord. The Lady Gilthaethil tended my injury as well as any healer. It does not trouble me much, only, I have walked a greater distance today than perhaps was wise."

Círdan pulled a chair from behind one of the numerous tables. "As you will. Sit down, at least, lad, before you fall over." Círdan drew his own chair close and seated himself opposite the herald. Gilthaethil drew a stool nearby. Only the Constable remained standing, looming darkly above the Shipwright's shoulder.

Maeldhuin was not accustomed to this manner of welcome. Usually, he performed his duties in great council halls or audience chambers, surrounded by advisers, attendants, and a host of courtiers. Seated thus before so great a lord as Círdan, Maeldhuin felt his tongue cleave to the roof of his mouth. His formal phrases were of little help now, and he searched his mind for an appropriate opening. 

Círdan spared him that ordeal. "I have seen you here before, have I not?" 

"Aye, my lord. In happier days, I bore missives here from my Lord."

Círdan's brows arched quizzically. "In happier days, say you?"

Maeldhuin's eyes darted to the faces of the guards standing along the walls. Círdan understood the messenger's unspoken concern, and dismissed them. "My lord," Maeldhuin began in a whisper. "Great evil has befallen my City."

The Constable's eyes flashed in anger. "What have the wretched heirs of Fëanor wrought this time?" 

"Peace, Caredhel, let the herald reveal the fullness of his tidings."

Maeldhuin ignored the Constable, and, taking a deep breath to steady his nerves, he told of the dire events that had befallen his City. He recounted all he could, struggling to master his emotions and maintain his decorum, refusing to let the Lord of the Falathrim see the true depth of his fear and pain. He could not suppress a shudder, however, when he told Círdan of Sauron's wrath, and of his bitter promise to exact his vengeance upon the Eldar. "He has sworn to destroy us all, my lord. Already, I fear he has laid waste our City and cruelly slaughtered our people."

"The whole city, you are certain of this?"

"Nay, my lord. I am not wholly certain, for I was not there among my kin. But this is what I believe."

"Where were you?"

"Cowering in some rat's hole, no doubt," Caredhel muttered. "If you had any shred of honour you would have aided in the defense of your home."

"Nay, my Lord! That is not how it was, I swear." Maeldhuin's eyes grew bright but he refused to shed tears before those who would condemn him. "It is true that my companions and I watched the devastation from the crest of a hill five leagues away from my City, safe while the storm descended upon my home, do not believe that cowardice drove us from our walls. The Lord Celebrimbor sent us away ere the storm unfurled upon us. I am no soldier. None of us were. How would we have aided our City by staying and perishing upon her walls? We were couriers. Our duty was to our Lord, and to the messages he entrusted to our care." 

The Lord of the Havens leaned back in his chair and pondered Maeldhuin's words in silence. Stirring finally, he turned a weary gaze on the courier. "Your news is dire. And I perceive that you do not tell me all you know. Yet I do not doubt the urgency of your plight. Vague whisperings have blown in on the Eastern wind, filling the air with rumours of this new evil. So, I ask you, Maeldhuin of Eregion, what would you have of me?"

"Tidings, Lord. Has Master Falathar come to Mithlond?"

Círdan bolted upright. "Falathar is your master? He is your missing companion?" Maeldhuin nodded. Círdan sighed and his shoulders bowed at the weight of his tidings. "Nay, lad, he has not."

Maeldhuin's heart sank. "Then I fear his duty falls to me. Lord Círdan, I must seek out the King. Celebrimbor bade us deliver a message to him." 

Caredhel whispered into Círdan's ear, "Make him deliver his message to us, here and now. We will judge whether or not it is fitting for the King to hear." 

Círdan waved the Constable away and returned his attention to the prisoner. "For all that you are well-intentioned, my heart counsels me against aiding Celebrimbor. My people have suffered greatly at the hands of his fathers. Surely you must know that there are some who would rejoice at your tidings."

Maeldhuin bowed his head. "Aye, my lord. But Celebrimbor is not his sire. Nor should you believe that all of Fëanor's kin are tainted with the pride that drove our fathers from the Blessed Realm. We are craftsmen, lord, much as your own people, and seek only to improve our skills, not, as some would have it, for self-aggrandizement, but for the betterment of all free races."

"Your loyalty does you honour, and I sense no deceit in you. I do not hold you accountable for the misdeeds of your forefathers, for I see none of their arrogance in your bearing."

"Then give me leave to speak with the King."

"Alas, it is not in my power to grant you that which you seek. The King is campaigning far in the North, driving the forces of Forochel from our lands. He will not return for many months. How else may I aid you?"

There was little else Círdan could do to help. Maeldhuin could neither deliver the tokens into the Shipwright's hands, nor reveal to him the full nature of his quest. His only choice was to seek out the King in his northern encampment. "A horse, Wise Círdan, and provisions, that I may reach the King, and fulfill my duty. That is all I ask."

"I will consider your words, and your request. For now, get you to the Healers, and have them tend your injury. There will I send word to you." Turning to Gilthaethil, Círdan added, "Escort our guest to the Healers, and see that he is suitably cared for, then return to my chambers. I would hear your counsel, as well."

Maeldhuin's face froze. What counsel could one such as Gilthaethil possibly give the Lord of the Havens? 

* * *

Gilthaethil sat in Círdan's private chambers, stroking the kestrel's feathers.

Círdan paced the floor with slow and measured steps, much as he would pace the deck of a ship. "You believe his tidings?" he asked.

"He has given me no cause to doubt them. What else but the direst need would drive him into the heart of the forest?"

Caredhel gave a sour laugh. "Lies and deceptions! 'Tis but a ruse. He would appeal to our sense of compassion, insinuate himself into our hearts, then open our gates to his murderous kin!" 

The Lord of the Havens stopped his pacing, and paused by the tall window. He turned his gaze towards the silver waters of the firth, revisiting in his mind the troubled past shared between his people and Fëanor's proud kin.

Caredhel crossed to his side. "Consider, Uncle, what good has ever come of our dealings with the heirs of Fëanor? I will die ere I trust any spawn of that brood. Have you forgotten the day the streets ran red with the blood of our people?"

"Peace, Caredhel! I have forgotten nothing. I fear that we are all bound in some way to this herald's tale. I heard the knell of doom in his words, and all our Fates resonating in them."

Caredhel's voice shook with passion. "All the more reason to send him back to his own land! Why jeopardize the safety of our city? The Jewel Smiths are cursed. Condemned by the Valar, and by their own vile deeds. Do we wish that curse to be visited upon us?"

"Our actions towards this Fëanorian may influence our destiny. Maeldhuin's purpose may be noble, but any decision regarding Celebrimbor's plight is not mine alone to make. I will convene a Council of the Wise, ere we send word to King. Maeldhuin will present himself before us, and deliver his message to all in attendance." Círdan seated himself behind a long table, and began sharpening a well-worn quill. "Caredhel, you will carry these messages to Elrond and to Galadriel and Celeborn." 

Gilthaethil looked up in surprise. "Caredhel? Why not send Maeldhuin?" she asked. "These matters concern him more closely than anyone here!"

"Caredhel may be right. Perhaps this is all a ruse. I will not trust him until I know for certain where he stands.

"Nay!  Do not say that.  In your heart, you know he speaks the truth!"

"He has told us no lies, but neither has he told us all he knows. Besides, he is not fit to ride. Should evil befall him, what hope his lord has placed in him will be lost. Nay, he will remain here, rest and heal."

"Then send me, not Caredhel!" Gilthaethil pleaded. Círdan's eyes narrowed with apprehension, but he said nothing. "I alone here have spoken with him at length, and I alone know the urgency of his mission. Consider also, " she added, indicating her rustic garb, "who would suspect one such as myself of carrying your missives? Who would suspect me of having dealings with the great of our people? Do not send Caredhel, I pray you! He will poison their hearts against Maeldhuin's cause."

Caredhel twisted around, the colour high in his face. "Poison them? You do me an injustice, Gilthaethil. I have spoken only what my heart compels me to. Whatever our Lord decides, he should bear in mind our long grievance against the House of Fëanor, something I cannot expect you to comprehend."

The kestrel screeched, and Gilthaethil took a moment to soothe it before replying. Her voice when she spoke, had lost its edge of cold rage, but none of its intensity. "Your heart plays you false, Caredhel. Maeldhuin is innocent of any wrongdoing. But you would still spread your misguided lies, sully Maeldhuin's good name with doubt and conjecture, whilst he would remain here, unable to make an account of himself."

She turned her back on her kinsman, and crossed the room to Círdan's desk. She watched in silence as he blotted the last of the summons, then rolled and sealed each sheet of parchment. "Give me the messages," she said, handing him a large leather tube.  "I will carry them for you, and let the Council pronounce untainted judgment on our guest.

Círdan's features grew stern. "Your request surprises me. I am inclined to consent to it, but only because you are the more skilled in woodcraft." Caredhel's jaw dropped. "Oh, do cease the artifice, Caredhel. We all know how you loathe any disruption of your comforts. Instead, I would charge you with arranging appropriate accommodations for our guest, and seeing to his comfort."

Caredhel's demeanor brightened at these words. "I understand, my Lord, and know just the place."

Círdan recognized the eager look in his nephew's eyes. "Mind, Caredhel, he is an envoy of Eregion, and an honoured visitor. He is to be treated as such." 

"Aye, my Lord. Shall I post a guard by his door?"

"Heavens, no! Have I not made myself clear? He is to be treated with respect befitting his rank. I will not have it said that the Falathrim are ungracious hosts. Now, leave us. I would spend some time alone with my daughter."

* * *

**_To be continued_**


	6. Strange Bedfellows

**Author's note**: 

I am truly sorry for the long delay. Real life has been leaving very little time to indulge my Muses.

Thanks Chevy, for the encouragement, Bookwyrm for the nudge, Erunyauve, for seeing Círdan as I do, and Lucideye for the giggles. And thanks everyone else who has read the story whether you've shared your thoughts, or not. 

And now without any further ado…

**Chapter Six – _Strange Bedfellows_**

"What?!" 

"He's gone, my lady. I went to fetch a clean bandage, and when I returned he had disappeared." 

Gilthaethil felt the colour drain from her face "But…but that's impossible. He was injured. He could barely walk!"

The healer's features were filled with dismay. "He swore that he was well, and that his injury was of little consequence. Lady, should we have restrained him?"

She shook her head in disbelief. "Nay… nay..." She spun on her heel, and began to pace the chamber, trying to gather her wits. Maeldhuin had been desperate to reach the King, that much was plain, but would his dire need have driven him to such foolhardy action? How had she failed to foresee this?

"My lady?"

Her thoughts in turmoil, Gilthaethil muttered vague thanks to the healer, and sped out the door, only dimly aware of the screeching kestrel she'd startled into flight. 

Had she been so easily duped? She had spent the morning in Círdan's study, defending Maeldhuin's cause and character. The Shipwright could not be swayed, however, and had rebutted every argument with cold reason, calmly explaining why he could not, in good conscience, grant the herald the safe passage he begged. Maeldhuin, he assured her, would be treated with the highest degree of courtesy, as befitted an honoured envoy. Until the Council of the Wise pronounced judgement, however, he must remain in Mithlond. Círdan would allow him freedom of the City, and, provided he did nothing to abuse the privilege, he would remain free to wander about unhindered and unguarded. Ha! It had taken him less than three hours to lose _that_ privilege

She should have known all would go ill. She should have known better than to meddle in the dealings of her betters. She should have stayed on her hilltop and let this reckless wind blow over. What folly had thus possessed her? Even now, she was tempted to leave him to whatever welcome Caredhel would have waiting for him. "Devils take him! I care not!" 

But soon, the fit of cold rage left her, and she slowed her furious pace. Breathing hard, she paused to study her surroundings, begging the gods for a glimpse of Maeldhuin's brightly emblazoned tabard. Where was he? Where in all of Mithlond would a fugitive seek aid?" 

And then, as suddenly as it had appeared, frustration gave way to fey satisfaction. With a grim laugh, Gilthaethil turned and sped towards the waterfront.

* * *

Maeldhuin stepped out of the tavern, tightly gripping the pouch at his belt. The pouch was not nearly as full as he had hoped it would be. Here, among the street vendors and back-alley peddlers, Duilin's pendant had fetched far less than its true worth, and only a fraction of what a legitimate merchant might have offered. For although the necklace was of finest Eregion craftsmanship and easily worth at least three times the gold he'd received, Maeldhuin could not have risked recognition, or the questions that would have been asked in the more respectable quarters of the City. And so, paying the price of anonymity, he had settled for the peddler's miserly offer. Fate had left him little choice, and he wept inwardly at having to sell his kinsman's name badge so cheaply. He had to leave Mithlond, the sooner the better, and the price of Duilin's pendant, would be enough, he surmised, to cover the purchase of a simple sword, and perhaps a knife or a dagger, as well. A horse, he could always steal, and provisions? He would worry about provisions later.

Mithlond's twin waterfronts were lively places at most times, but at midday, with crowds of sailors, ferrymen, and merchants of all free races wending their way from the quays to the taverns, inns, and hostelries for the midday meal, the cobbled streets were fairly milling with traffic. 

From his vantage point by the tavern door, Maeldhuin searched the crowd. He soon found what he had been looking for. A guard, wearing the silver and blue of the Havens, stood casually beneath an awning several doors away with his back slightly turned, and feigning interest in a fruit monger's wares. Tall, raven-haired, and carrying a gleaming helmet under one arm, he had been following Maeldhuin ever since his flight from the healers. The guard was good, Maeldhuin allowed, for an amateur. He had kept his distance, had not yet done anything to draw attention to himself, melting instead into the shadows whenever the herald had stolen a backwards glance. He stood now, pretending not to have noticed his quarry's exit from the tavern, but Maeldhuin, well-schooled in the art of secrecy and evasion, marked how his posture suddenly stiffened, as if preparing for the chase. "Let him try," he thought. "He may be good…" and the merest hint of a smile touched his lips, "but he is no match for me." 

From far up the street, lewd and raucous singing was suddenly heard, and before long, a clutch of sailors appeared, stumbling drunkenly as they meandered towards the quay. The guard's gaze shifted briefly to the sailors, and in that moment of distraction, Maeldhuin left his place by the door, and slipped into a dim passageway at the side of the building. There, hidden safely behind a stack of barrels, he wrapped himself in his cloak, watched, waited, and plotted his next move. 

Though thoroughly soused, the sailors seemed harmless enough, and the guard quickly returned his gaze to the tavern door. His cheeks paled. His eyes grew wide in alarm. He dropped the apple he'd been about to purchase, and to the fruit monger's cries, he frantically pushed his way through the crowd. 

Maeldhuin smiled in the shadows. The guard stood now with a hand pressed to the tavern door, shifting from foot to foot, debating his next move. By now, the sailors had reached the opposite side of the street, where a potter displayed his wares. Maeldhuin picked a stone from the litter at his feet and with keen Elven aim, he let it fly straight at the farthest of the men. 

"Oy!" the man cried, and, clutching a hand to his bleeding scalp, he teetered into a tall stack of crockery. Pots, platters, and jars rained down to the pavement, smashing on the cobbles, and scattered all about the roadway. The sailor glanced about him, taking in the scope of the wreckage he'd wrought. He struggled to his feet in an attempt to flee the scene, but the outraged potter caught him about his knees, and both went tumbling into a crock-laden shelf. Before long, the man's companions charged to their friend's defense and the sound of curses and smashing pottery soon filled the quayside.

"Guard! Guard!!"

It was all Maeldhuin could do to avoid laughing out loud. Neighbouring merchants, all in an uproar, were dragging the hapless guard to the potter's stand. Maeldhuin watched a little while longer, until convinced that the guard's attention was suitably diverted. When the disturbance was at its peak, he quickly slipped off his herald's tabard, and stepped out of the alleyway.

"Have you gone mad?"

Fingers of steel gripped his arms, and Maeldhuin could not help but flinch from the iron-hard gaze before him. 

"Let go!" He struggled but could not break free.

Gilthaethil's voice was like ice. "Have you taken complete leave of your senses?" She nodded towards the fray at her back. "Your doing?"

"Not here!" Maeldhuin's's eyes darted to the guard's shining helm.

Gilthaethil followed his gaze. "Perhaps I should turn you in, and be rid of you once and for all!"

"Not here," he repeated through gritted teeth. "Please!"

Gilthaethil dragged him to the quayside, hustled him down the seawall stairs, and sat him down on the cold damp sand. "Explain yourself," she spat.

"Me?" The herald's features were livid with rage. "I have told you everything my duty allows." He turned and would have risen to his feet, but Gilthaethil forced him back down. "Save your strength," he said. "There is naught else I would reveal to you, _lady_, now that I know where your loyalties lie."

"Enough!" Gilthaethil snapped. "I grow weary of your lies."

"Lies?!" Maeldhuin bit his tongue, lest his temper should overbear his reason.

Silence grew heavy between them, and was broken only by the cry of the gulls, and the ringing of ships' bells. In the distance, protests could faintly be heard as the last of the drunken sailors were dragged away to the guardhouse. 

At length, she could bear it no longer. "Herald, I know not how, but you have been misled! I sheltered you, tended your injury, drew your enemies away that you may continue your journey. At great cost to myself, I brought you here. And this is how you thank me? Tell me, are all Fëanorians such ingrates?"

"Are all of the Falathrim so duplicitous?" 

She waved an arm at the street above them. "None of this was any of my doing!" But her words fell into the leaden space between them. Maeldhuin snorted, and clambering to his feet, he limped up the stairs.

"This is folly," Gilthaethil muttered, and rushed to block his way. She placed a hand on his chest. "How will you manage?"

"I will manage," he said, and, shoved her aside. 

"You can barely walk!" Gilthaethil jeered.

"Then I'll crawl!"

"You have no money, no mount, no weapons..."

"I have money," he said stubbornly, swaying at the top of the stairs. He surveyed the street. All was quiet. The mob had dissipated, and only the potter's wife remained, sweeping shards of crockery into the centre channel. 

Steeling his resolve, Maeldhuin started across the street. A short distance behind, Gilthaethil followed. "Where will you go?" 

Maeldhuin met her gaze but refused to answer.

"What will you do?"

"My duty." 

"I can help you."

Maeldhuin stopped and gave a bitter laugh. "I've had enough of your help." He gritted his teeth and continued on his way, pausing a moment to lean against the pillar of an awning to ease the weight from his foot.

"You're injured."

Maeldhuin gave a bitter laugh. "Aye, and will you strike me again, that I may submit to your kind ministrations?" He turned away, and struggled onward.

Gilthaethil made no move to follow. "I am sorry for that," she called after him.

Something in her voice made Maeldhuin turn around. "And the sentries, and the guards, and the rest, are you sorry for those too?"

"I swear, Maeldhuin, it was not me."

Maeldhuin could go no further. There was an inn nearby, and he hobbled into the common room, where he let himself collapse onto a rough wooden bench. Gilthaethil found him with his head in his hands. She whispered a word to the landlord, who returned shortly bearing a steaming tankard.

"Amends?" she said, and pushed the tankard towards the herald. Maeldhuin regarded it suspiciously, and shoved it back. 

Gilthaethil took a sip, and smiled. "Mulled wine." she said, "Naught else, I promise. It will help you relax." He took the tankard with both hands, and emptied it in one long draught, savouring the spreading warmth. He leaned back, closed his eyes, and giving a shuddering sigh, raised his throbbing foot onto the bench.

"Had I suspected that any of this would happen," Gilthaethil continued, "I would have led you directly to the King." Without further thought, she took his foot in her hands. "What became of the splint?" 

"The healers took it," he said wearily. "I left ere they could bind it again."

"You are a fool, Maeldhuin of Eregion."

"Mayhap."

"The healers are harmless. They are bound by oath to help any and all who come their way."

"Aye? And what of Caredhel, and the guards he posted at the door?"

"Nay, he would never do that. Never would he dare gainsay Círdan!"

"Do you doubt my word?"

"Círdan distinctly told him not to. He said you were to be treated as an honoured guest."

Maeldhuin laughed sourly.  "'Tis a wonder then, that there are so many travellers here, if this welcome be typical of Falathrim hospitality."

Gilthaethil's thoughts were in turmoil. Could Caredhel have gone against Círdan's orders? Caredhel loved Círdan as a father. Yet, something had been troubling him of late. She struggled with her thoughts until a choked cry drew her back to the present. "I'm sorry," she said, and loosened her grip on Maeldhuin's foot. "I will bind it again," she said, ripping a length of fabric from the hem of her underskirt. "Then I will hire you a horse, and bring you to my own lodgings, where you will rest and heal. By the time I return, you will be fit to march from here to Eregion and back, if that be your choice."

Maeldhuin bolted upright. "Return? Where are you going?"

"Círdan is convening a Council of the Wise. I am to bear the summons to the Lords of the Eldar. Together, they will hear your tale, and discuss a course of action."

"What is there to discuss? My duty is plain."

"They are to discuss whether or not to allow you to continue on your journey."

Maeldhuin's voice grew tight with desperation. "That decision is not theirs to make! Celebrimbor's words are for the King alone, not for Círdan, Elrond, nor any other."

"Aye, but the King is not here."

"Will he be at this council?" Maeldhuin asked, already guessing the answer.

"You know he will not."

"Then the outcome of the Council matters naught."

Gilthaethil made a noise of disgust. She fastened the makeshift bandage about Maeldhuin's foot. The herald's stubborn determination was beyond her reckoning, and in frustration, she began to pace before the table. "Why are you behaving thusly? Can you not trust in Lord Círdan's judgement? He is deemed among the wisest of our people."

"Your people, perhaps. Not mine. He has no love for the heirs of Fëanor. Granted, the fault lies with my forebears. But that was a long age ago, and if neither Círdan nor his courtiers can see beyond the errors of the past, then I will have to find my own way to the King."

"Nay, I cannot believe he would hinder your cause."

"Nor did I before today, yet by his hesitation he would bring further suffering to my people." 

Gilthaethil ground her teeth in frustration but said nothing, for each time she spoke, she heard Círdan's words in her own voice. For a long time, she pondered everything Maeldhuin had told her since he had first stumbled into her glade. "You are an obstinate fool, Maeldhuin," she said, finally breaking the silence. "You cannot do this alone, and there is none other in this City who will help you."

"Falathar, if I can find him…"

"Falathar is lost! Will you accept my help, or will you betray your master's trust for sheer obstinacy?"

Maeldhuin stared blankly across the common room. Gilthaethil thought she saw tears glinting in his eyes, but the herald was too proud to give any sign of weakness. He shook his head, and heaved a great sigh. "A swift horse, a map, and provisions. I would ask naught else of you."

"Have you weapons?"

He shook his head "Caredhel's guards took my sword, my dagger, even my eating knife. I was seeking an armourer when you found me."

"I'll find your weapons, and aught else you may need. Can you ride? 

When Maeldhuin nodded, Gilthaethil disappeared briefly. She returned moments later, grinning broadly.

"I've found you a horse. He's the rough-coated roan on the left." 

Maeldhuin sat up, and looked out the tavern window. It was no messenger's courser, but it would do. He reached for the pouch at his side. 

"Nay, keep your coin. Wait here until sunset, then hie yourself across the river, and wait for me by the gatehouse stables there." 

Maeldhuin nodded, and Gilthaethil disappeared. He leaned his head back against the cool stone of the wall and sighed. What madness had he agreed to this time?

* * *

Sunset was gilding the silver waters of the Gulf when Maeldhuin mounted his horse, and began making his way towards the ferry. He felt every eye in Mithlond upon him, and wondered if the alarm had been raised. He hoped he looked like any casual rider, but he drew his hood closer to his face, just in case. 

He feared that soldiers might be watching the ferries, but to his great relief, the crossing was unguarded. The ferryman was arguing with a party of dwarves, and, amidst the clamour, took little notice of one silent Elf. He crossed the river without incident, paid the ferryman, and nudged his horse up the northern embankment.

The northern half of the City was more sober than its southern twin, and within a street or two of the bustling harbour, the waterfront establishments gave way to tidy houses and lush gardens. Maeldhuin rode through the quiet streets breathing in the pleasant air of peace and prosperity. On one tree-shaded avenue, music and ringing voices beckoned from a lantern-lit courtyard, and he was sorely tempted to stop and listen, for here dwelt, 'twas said, the finest singers of Middle Earth. Songs and cheer would have to wait for another evening, however, for this mission could afford no further delay. 

In the hours since his flight, the watch at the Gates had been strengthened, but whether the heightened vigilance were due to the raising of some silent alarm, or whether it was the norm after nightfall, Maeldhuin had no way of knowing. Whatever the cause, he was forced to reconsider how he would leave the City without attracting attention. He eased his mount to the side of the wall, and turned his gaze outwards, as if casually contemplating the view. Beyond the wall, a single narrow road ran straight through a treeless patchwork of farmlands, to a fringe of woodland several leagues distant. Gazing farther east, Maeldhuin saw the silver shimmer of the great northward bend of the river Lhûn. To the north and west, the sentinel peaks of the Blue Mountains stood out darkly against the star-spattered sky, and in their shadow far below, between the mountains and the firth, one by one, lights were kindled in every cotter's window. For a time, Maeldhuin nearly forgot the darkness that loomed over his homeland, as he lost himself in the tranquil beauty of the evening.

"Pssst!" Maeldhuin spun around. "Over here."

He looked and for a moment could see no one, then slowly made out Gilthaethil's form. He heard a piercing cry, and raising his eyes, he felt his habitual chill of misgiving as he recognized her familiar soaring far above the walls. 

Gilthaethil, to his surprise, had shed her peasant garb, and she emerged from the shadows wearing a sumptuous riding habit of the deepest starshot blue, with a hooded mantle of silver. 

"Gilthaethil?" He asked, hesitating over the unusual name. "You look..."

She laughed. "I cannot very well present the Lord of the Falathrim dressed in my woodland weeds. Leave your gawking. Come, we must make haste and leave ere they think to look for us together."

"What mean you "we"? I am travelling alone, my lady." 

"Don't be foolish! Of course we will travel together. How else do you expect to leave the City?" 

"But you have a mission from Lord Círdan." 

"Aye, and you may set your mind at ease, I intend to fulfill my task. Our paths, however, run parallel for some distance. I shall see you safely out of the City, and travel with you a while, before seeking out Lord Elrond's stronghold." 

Maeldhuin met her dark gaze but said not a word.

"'Tis settled." She swept back her cloak, revealing two sword belts. One, she unbuckled, and held to her companion. He smiled in relief, and quickly fastened the belt about his waist. His fingers were closing about the familiar hilts, when she handed him a dagger, and a short-bladed knife. "These too are yours, are they not?" 

"How did …"

"I have my ways," she answered cryptically. She turned and reached into her saddlebags, drawing out a bundle of rags. "Here," she said, and tossed them at him. "Put these on."

Maeldhuin and disappeared into a stall. When he stepped out again, Gilthaethil nodded her approval. "Now rub some dirt in your hair and muddy your face." .

Aghast, Maeldhuin scratched at the stable's earthen floor, until he had a small quantity of soil in his hands.

"Oh, for heaven's sake. You're nearly as bad as Caredhel." Gilthaethil grabbed a handful of dirt, spit into her hands, and rub the mess onto Maeldhuin's tunic, and face. She slipped her knife from its sheath, and with a deft flick of her wrist, sliced the thong that held back the herald's locks. For a brief time, she toyed with the idea of giving him a quick haircut, but reconsidered when confronted with a frigid grey glare. She contented herself with running her muddy hands through his once-gleaming mane instead.

By the time she was done, the courier resembled the most lumpen of peasants. "All that remains is for you to shed that look of disgust." Maeldhuin gave her an unconvincing and lopsided grin. "Aye, you will do very well indeed. Now do not speak until we are well beyond the city gates. Understood?"

Maeldhuin nodded, and Gilthaethil mounted, the kestrel alighting gracefully upon her pommel. Maeldhuin, feeling self-conscious in his borrowed rags, followed at a respectable distance.

They had ridden but a few paces, when the sentry barked his challenge. Gilthaethil reined in her mount. "I travel bearing messages from the Lord of the Havens. Will you hinder my passage?"

"My lady, we have orders to question all who would leave the City."

"Do you know who I am?" she answered in glacial tones. "How dare you bar my way!" 

The guard raised is lantern to light her face, and blanched when he recognized the rider. The sentries whispered amongst themselves for a moment, before addressing her again. "We are sorry, Lady Gilthaethil," he began uncomfortably, "We did not recognize you in your courtly attire. A thousand pardons."

Gilthaethil sniffed and turned her horse's head towards the gate. Maeldhuin was making to follow, when the guard dropped his halberd between them, barring the way. "Who are you and what is your business beyond our walls?" 

Maeldhuin's heart was pounding in his chest, and his tongue clove to the roof of his mouth. He tried to summon his wits and phrase a suitable answer, but Gilthaethil was quicker. Having caught his panicked gaze, she wheeled her horse about. "He is my groom, and a simpleton. He cannot speak beyond a few meaningless grunts."

"My lady, I am sorry, but we have orders to …"

"Orders! I'll show you what I think of your orders! 'Twere better to guard our City against the foreign-born ruffians who mass here, and shatter our peace with their intemperate behaviour, than to bar honest citizens from journeying abroad. Why only today, I heard tell of a mob of drunken Mannish sailors rampaging through the harbour!" The chill in the air was palpable, but while the guards flinched under the lash of her reproofs, they made no move to open the way. 

Gilthaethil's tone dropped a few degrees more. "By whose orders do you dare harass us so?" 

"The Lord High Constable, lady. The Lord Caredhel, … my lady?" the sentry replied, looking none to sure of himself.

Gilthaethil laughed. The sound might have shattered glass. "Caredhel? And his authority should supersede mine?" The guards shuffled uncomfortably. "Have no doubt, the Lord Círdan will hear of this. What is your name, churl?" she asked indicating the nearest of the sentries.

The guards stumbled over each other in their apologies. The look on Gilthaethil's face never softened once, as she turned her horse's head towards the plain. She glanced over her shoulder at Maeldhuin. "Come, boy."

Maeldhuin followed in silent, slack-jawed awe, half-convinced in himself, that he was, indeed, an imbecile.

The night was clear, the moon, a bright sliver surrounded by the light of a thousand jewels. Beneath that spectacle, Maeldhuin and Gilthaethil passed into the night as a shimmering wave of moonlight. To the lonely figure standing in sullen watch high above the city gates, the dwindling shapes shone clearly through the darkness. And with each step that carried them towards the distant fringe of trees, Caredhel, High Constable of Mithlond, felt a growing tightness in his heart, and the bitter pull of revenge drawing him in their wake.

* * *

_To be continued_


	7. The Road Less Travelled

**Author's note: **

I am dreadfully sorry for the unforgivable long delay.  _Mea culpa. Mea maxima culpa._

I had a crisis of sorts over this fic that sucked the creative energy right out of me, and I had more or less decided to kill the story, but my Muse is a stubborn old thing that wouldn't give me any peace until Maeldhuin and Gilthaethil had fulfilled their quest.

At the risk of being long-winded, I feel a need to explain a few things about these characters and the genesis of this story.  PlasticChevy, the gifted author of LoTR fics _Where Dreams Take You, The Captain and the King, and The Steward's Tale (if you haven't read them yet, shame on you), asked me to compose a story about her OC Gilthaethil's namesake.  The only constraint was that this Gilthaethil had to be an Elvish heroine of the Second Age._

I knew from the outset that there would be a risk of Gilthaethil being perceived as a Mary-Sue.  As Chevy pointed out, any female, heroic OC runs that risk, and if she turns out to be the hitherto unknown daughter of a cannon Elf lord, well, she's practically doomed, I might add.

To those who persist in seeing Gilthaethil as a Mary-Sue, there's nothing I can do but to beg your indulgence, and ask that you keep reading and reserve judgment until the end.  Then if you still see her in that light, so be it.

Okay, enough blabbering, and on to chapter seven.

Enjoy! (And I still want to know what you think.)

Annys

P.s.:  Thanks for the lovely reviews Lucideye, and Erunyauve.  They are what drew me out of my creative funk.

P.p.s.:  Those of you who read the ends of stories first, and want to read the very abridged version of this tale, can find Faramir's telling of it in Chapter Seventeen of The Captain and the King, also on ff.net.  Cheers, Annys.

* * *

**Chapter Seven_ **– The Road Less Travelled**___**

Maeldhuin was beginning to believe he would surely see the passing of the age ere his task were done.  The leagues that separated him from Mithlond were crawling by with agonizing slowness as he and Gilthaethil plodded their way northwards. 

He understood the risks they faced, and knew they could travel no faster without raising suspicions in every village they crossed.  At Gilthaethil's insistence, he had agreed to travel in sluggish stealth.  He'd said nothing, but every fibre of his being ached to have done with this funereal pace, to kick his horse to a full gallop, and disappear down the road in a billowing cloud of dust.

He gave a long-suffering sigh and fought the urge to glance over his shoulder at his companion.  He could picture her air of detached contentment without looking.  Doubtless _she_ rode in blissful serenity, taking pleasure in the bucolic surroundings, giving little thought to the urgency of their mission or the dire need of his people.

Gilthaethil gave a shrill whistle. Maeldhuin, startled, spun 'round and watched with annoyance as the circling kestrel alighted on her outstretched arm.   With her free hand, Gilthaethil reached into her pouch and drew out some bloody dripping thing, which she fed the bird with much cooing and murmuring.   

"If this little bit of squirrel meat offends your delicacy, how will your stomach endure the task ahead?" she laughed, catching his sidelong look of revulsion.

"Pray, do not concern yourself for my stomach, Lady.  'Tis not the meat that offends me, but the surfeit of clucking baby-talk."  Gilthaethil laughed and turned her attentions back to the bird.

Eru's teeth!  Did she think him some untried novice who would let slip his disguise at the first hint of danger? He was no stranger to subterfuge and had no qualms about travelling under a borrowed guise. He could endure whatever task duty set to him, but why, in the name of all the heavens, must he pretend to be a healer?  They had debated the point one entire day's ride, until, grown weary of arguing, he had reluctantly agreed to pose as Gilthaethil's apprentice. 

Thus they would travel tending to the ills and ailments of the simple folk who dwelt in scattered settlements on the western bank of the Lhûn, holding the villagers' interest for a day or two, then quickly forgotten as soon as the road carried them to the next hamlet. 

After the first day's halt, rumour of their coming had flown before them, and at the end of the second day's journeying, they had no sooner dismounted, that villagers crowded about them, begging cures for the ills and infirmities that so readily plagued the Second Born. With an inward sigh, Maeldhuin slid from his horse,  wincing only slightly as his rapidly healing foot touched the ground.  He stamped his foot once to set the blood flowing, then giving no further thought to his injury, made his way through the throng.  

A horde of peasants pressed close about him, and he regarded them with equal parts of pity and revulsion, even as they wheezed, and coughed, and waved their lesions in his face.  He was not without compassion, and he had no desire to appear uncaring, but heavy as it was, his heart could not bear the added misery of Men.  And so he turned away, holding himself aloof, wondering all the while how Gilthaethil could lavish care on creatures that would still age and sicken and die.

"Wipe that hangman's look off your face," Gilthaethil whispered in Sindarin.  At Maeldhuin's blank response, she explained, slowly, "They will think they are dying."

"Are they not?" 

She was trying to think of a suitable reply, when a tug on her sleeve drew her back to her duty.  Even as she busied herself with a pale and listless child, she considered Maeldhuin's reluctance to deal with Men.  She could not understand his disdain.  Only the coldest of hearts would be indifferent to the suffering plight of these simple folk.

From the moment of their birth, Men were carried inexorably towards the grave.  For some, the journey would last full measure of years, while others, like this small, frail child on her knee, would see but a handful of summers and be gone.  She swallowed hard to ease the tightness in her throat, ruffled the poppet's hair, and, forcing a smile onto her lips, she pressed a bundle of herbs in the mother's callused hand.   

Maeldhuin watched wordlessly from the shadows, until the woman herded the last of her scrawny brood out of the alehouse, then stepped forward.  "Why trouble yourself?  The babe will not live see another spring"

 "Would you have me sit on my hands and do nothing? At the least, I may ease the boy's suffering."

"It is no mercy to kindle false hopes."

"It is not my intent that I should. They know what fate awaits their child, and they understand, better than we can imagine, how fragile is the thread that binds them to this life.  And yet they would still have me try."

"Would not a swift end be kinder?"

"Then you must pray that the Valar will be merciful, for that is one kindness my oath will not allow me to administer."

Cowed for the present, Maeldhuin drew back into the shadows, and pondered new questions that would, like all the others before, remain unanswered.  The crowd grew as the evening wore on, and the herald had no choice but to swallow his revulsion and spend the hours of darkness cleaning wounds, changing dressings, and rubbing salves into joints rendered stiff by age and hard use.  

When the sun rose again, they packed their medicines, mounted their horses, and made their way towards the next settlement.

As he rode, Maeldhuin considered all that he had seen tending to the ills the Men.  From behind the folds of her hood, Gilthaethil regarded him thoughtfully.  Had he not been so enwrapped in his own thoughts, he would have noticed the healer's eyes shining with an uncharacteristic gentleness.

 "You begin to understand, Herald," Gilthaethil said some time later, when they stopped to water the horses.  "You have had few dealings with Men, and none, I deem, with the common folk.  Have you never allowed yourself to befriend even one of them?

The Herald shook his head.  "To what purpose?  The sorrow of parting would last longer than the comfort such friendship might bring.  Besides," he laughed mirthlessly, "they have cares and concerns of their own, and little time to waste on the starry-eyed dreams of the Eldar."

Gilthaethil gave a quiet chuckle.  "We are not as different as you think. We share the same hopes, the same griefs, even the same dreams.  But, while we may spend ages in their pursuit, Men are accorded but a few score of years ere they pass to the halls of their fathers.  True, their lives are brief and filled with toil and sorrow, yet for all that their flame burns briefly, it gives a brilliant light."

"While even now," Maeldhuin sighed, "our flame flickers and begins to fade, and will leave behind only dimly-remembered tales for the children of Men to learn at their grandams' knee."

Gilthaethil glimpsed through his bitterness,  the grief her companion thought to conceal behind a mask of indifference.  His heart was not so cold. She would make a healer of him yet.   

* * *

           For all that he was growing into his assumed role, Maeldhuin never lost sight of his true purpose. Nor could he shake the feeling of cold eyes fixed on the back of his neck. Ever, as he rode, he strained to make out the distant hoof beats of pursuit. But the road was silent.  Their flight, it seemed, had gone unchecked, unnoticed, even.  Perhaps, the dreaded chase had not yet come, but still his instincts warned him against complacency.

The leagues lengthened behind them.  Holdings grew scattered and then scarce.  The road, a deeply-rutted thoroughfare near Mithlond, was barely marked this far from the Havens, and with the passing of the fifth night of their flight, long after the mists had swallowed the last desolate homestead, it came to an abrupt halt, leaving in its stead a single narrow track of beaten earth.

"Is this it, then?" 

Gilthaethil answered with a shrug. 

Spying a tall spruce, Maeldhuin sprang from his mount, and swung himself up into the tree.  Leaping lightly from limb to limb, he soon reached the upper branches, where he cast his long sight across the bleak northern wasteland.  As he did, he felt a surge of hope swell within his breast. North, East, South, and West: the countryside lay desolate and still.

One scar only marred the vast expanse of evergreens beneath his gaze.  A patch of rough, treeless ground some distance removed, overgrown with matted vines.  A dense tangle of winter dry foliage obscured the contours of the clearing, but even beneath its mantle, the circle stood out clearly, too clearly to have been drawn by some accident of nature. 

He scrambled down the tall evergreen, and leaving the horses in his companion's care, he went to make a closer inspection.

Fearing an ambush at any instant, he crept from tree to tree, until he stood on the very edge of the clearing.  At its centre, barely visible beneath a brittle tracery of dead vines, a circle of stones lay charred and tumbled in drunken disarray.  

Though the forest was silent and still, the circle itself seemed to cast a spell, moving his feet, independently of his will, drawing him to the very edge of the ruins.  With the song of the stones wailing and thrumming in his ears, he stepped into the shattered circle. He stopped before what might once have been an altar of sorts, and lightly trailed a finger across the stained surface.  The cold seeped from the stone into his veins, to touch his heart with a sliver of icy dread. 

All of a sudden, pain and despair slammed into him, flooding his senses with such fear horror, that he cried from the very anguish of it, and recoiled from the altar. 

He fell backwards, clutching at the pouch against his chest.  Catching his breath, he tried to gather his wits about him.  It made no sense.  He struggled to picture the maps he'd studied in his master's study.  Falathar would have known who had set these stones, and what power had brought them down, but Falathar was lost. And only the stones held the memory of the folk who had dwelt here and of the grief that had befallen them.  Like the ruins of his own City.

Ost-in-Edhil would share this fate.  The memory of its people would bleed into the earth, leaving only charred rock and desolation where once the City of the Jewel Smiths had glittered beneath the heavens.

He gave a strangled cry.  With tears flooding his eyes, and the keening of the stones thrumming in his ears, he sped back to the place where Gilthaethil waited with the horses.  He spoke not a word, but snatched the reins from her hands and vaulted onto the roan's back.

"Maeldhuin, wait!" 

He had waited long enough and had wasted far too much time already. 

"What is it, what did you see?"

The roan snorted and tossed its mane.  Though no Elvish steed, it sensed something of its rider's need, and twitched with impatience.  Maeldhuin crouched low over its neck, and the animal, needing no spur but a single whispered command, tossed back its head, and neighed a challenge to its princely companion.  Then, like an arrow released from the string, horse and rider disappeared down the narrow path.

Gilthaethil's courser, not to be outdone by a common hostler's hireling, answered the challenge with a call of his own and an instant later, no trace remained of the travellers but a faint cloud of settling dust and a fading drumbeat of hooves.

* * *

Winter had not entirely relinquished its hold on these bleak lands.  The fitful sun had yet to melt the ice on the lakes and ponds, and ragged drifts of muddy snow lingered endlessly, waiting for the spring rains to loosen winter's grip. Bare branches reached for the riders, whipped their faces and tugged at their hair and garments, trying to pull them from their steeds as they raced ever northwards.

With nothing in the dull landscape to hold the herald's interest, his thoughts wandered far from the road, back wards down a path of despair, leading him, as they always did, to the ruins of his home.  Lost in his dark musings, he did not heed Gilthaethil's cry of warning, until it was almost too late. 

A sudden lurch and the hard scrabbling of hooves jolted him from his sombre reverie.  The horses neighed wildly, and far above his head, the kestrel, wheeled and screeched in alarm.  

He steadied himself with a handful of mane, blinked away the remnants of his dream, and cast a quick glance around.

An arm's length away, a dense thicket of briars blocked the path. In his distraction, he might have galloped headlong into a wall of thorns, each as long as his hand, and razor-sharp. He slid from the trembling animal's back.  "Hush, my friend," he murmured, stroking the animal's face, and turned to his companion.  "How comes this here?  

"How would I know?  You are the seasoned traveller, not I!"

The way was impassable.  The thicket rose to the height of a dozen men, and stretched, without a breach, from a smooth rock face upon their left, to the sheer precipice that dropped away on their right, plunging to the river far below. 

Abandoning the thicket, the herald drew closer to the rock wall, and ran his hands over its flawless surface.  An age ago, the river had flowed this way, and for years beyond count, its waters had tumbled over this face, scouring away knobs and outcroppings, polishing the stone to glassy perfection. He studied its surface from top to bottom, but nowhere could he see the least flaw, crevice, or handhold to help him reach the summit. 

Gilthaethil's voice cut into his contemplation. "Surely, you're not thinking of climbing it?"

Maeldhuin grunted a vague reply. "Bah! It's hopeless!" he muttered a moment later, and turned around to consider some other way.  

Standing on the very edge of the precipice, the tips of his boots overhanging the ledge, he peered over the vertiginous drop, down to the river a good quarter-league below. A gnarled and stunted tree clung to a fissure halfway down the cliff, but it was the only living thing that could find purchase on this barren rock. This side was no better than the other!

Which left only the hedge itself.  There was but one thing to do.

Taking a steadying breath, he turned slowly and drew his sword.  With a searing cry born of grief and frustration, he hurled himself at the thicket, swinging his bright blade in a powerful arc and bringing it crashing down against the thorn-laden branches.  

The shock of contact turned his arm to jelly, and with a clatter, the notched blade fell from his nerveless fingers.

Gilthaethil stood dumbstruck.  The roadway was utterly silent save for the dying echoes of ringing steel.  Mîm, startled into flight, settled back gently upon her mistress' shoulder, and both creatures, one staring with unblinking awe, the other in open-mouthed disbelief, watched the herald shake life back into his numbed arm.

Maeldhuin caught their look, muttered darkly in Noldorin, and drew himself to his full height with all the dignity he could muster.  "Instead of standing, staring, and doing nothing, you might help us find a way out of here?"

"We might set it afire."

"And in so doing, cry out our presence to the world?"

"Then we must turn back, and retrace our steps until we find another way."

  


"There is no other way!"

"There is always another way."

"None that is open to us."

"Then we have no choice but to ride back to the last homestead we passed, and beg an axe."

"Nay, we have no time. What of the bird?  Can you not command it to overfly this accursed wall, and tell you how deep it runs."

Gilthaethil threw him a look of pure disdain, and turned away. 

He gripped her by the shoulder and spun her around. "Lady, I have encountered delay upon delay since stumbling into your glade.  While my City languishes, we have done naught but dawdle, first in your cavern, then in Mithlond, we then dawdled our leisurely way through every godforsaken huddle of huts between the Gulf and Forochel. 

"I have wasted too much time already, and cannot afford to turn back.  My kin are dying!"

 He took a shuddering breath, and when next he spoke, his features were composed, though his words kept their edge of steel.   "I have no claim on your companionship.  I do not hold you to my choice.  If your heart tells you to turn back, then in good conscience do so. Take your horse, your goods, your charms, your potions, and hie yourself back to your glade."

  There were daggers in Gilthaethil's eyes, but she clenched her fists, bit her tongue, and gave no voice to her most immediate thoughts. 

She could not fault him his stubbornness. Though she had often wished for the waves to wash      Mithlond and all its foolish inhabitants out to sea, in her heart, she knew that if Círdan were in mortal danger, she would be as single-minded in her quest to save him as Maeldhuin was in his.

She walked over to where he sat his back against the cliff, staring darkly at the dirt between his feet.  "Thinking alone will not see you through that thicket," she said after a long silence. " 'Tis woven tighter than Melian's girdle."

He rose to his feet, and strode over to the unyielding wall. "I will not be thwarted by a simple hedge!  Why, 'tis naught but a tangle of greenery," he said through clenched teeth.  Bracing a foot against a knot of old wood, he began pulling and tugging at the briars.   

Gilthaethil watched him for a moment, then kilted her skirts, rolled up her sleeves, and joined him at his the task.  If her companion noticed her presence, he gave no sign, only muttering through gritted teeth as he did battle with the vines.   The branches gave way, a little. "Ha!  See?  Let it never be said that Maeldhuin of Eregion was bested by a mindless, overgrown, _houseplaaa—"_

A resounding crack cut short the Herald's words.  The briar wall shuddered, and herald and healer both, were sent tumbling and spinning. While Gilthaethil bounced once or twice on her rump and was still, Maeldhuin stumbled, fighting for balance, clutching a broken length of gnarled wood, until he came to a hard, inelegant stop with his nose pressed against the rock wall.  

He felt his skin flush to the tip of his pointed ears.  One more bumbling embarrassment to his discredit.  Wincing in anticipation of his companion's inevitable rebuke, he risked a furtive glance over his shoulder.  

But Gilthaethil gave no sign of having noticed. Her gaze was fixed instead upon the briar wall.  Maeldhuin turned slowly around, and at once his dejected air was replaced by one of guarded hope.

In the centre of the thicket, a large portion of wall had split apart, revealing a low archway and beyond it, a path concealed in shadows.

They approached the entrance on silent feet.  Maeldhuin took a step into the forbidding tunnel.  "Nay!" Gilthaethil cried, and she reached for his arm, ready to pull him out at the first hint of danger. 

"Let loose. I sense no malice here, only watchfulness, and ... fear?"

He tilted his head upwards, to the barbed canopy that closed a hair's breadth above his head.  Staring into the tangled shadows, he gave a sour laugh. "Never have I seen the like of this.  What do you make of it?" 

  


Gilthaethil shrugged.  She stepped into the archway, reached out a hand, closed her fingers around a twisted knob of wood, and grew still.  Her eyes suddenly flew open.  "They have voices!" she cried in alarm.

Maeldhuin took a step farther beneath the shadows, and pressed his hand against the living wood. After a long expectant silence, he felt himself enveloped by a deep sighing longing.  The air was still, and he could still hear the buzz of insects and the breathing of the wind, but from the soles of his feet and creeping upwards, he felt the wordless plea of the coppice whispering all about him."

He opened her eyes and met Gilthaethil's gaze.  The wonder he felt was mirrored in his companion's features.

 "Can you understand their speech!"

He swallowed hard, and shook his head. "Scarcely.  It is as old as the earth itself, deep as the 

wells of time, and as slow as the passing of the ages.  They speak of fear, loss and betrayal.  Their voices are chill with warning."

"There is great wariness here, and little love of strangers."

"They are fearful, but not of us.  They will suffer us to pass, I think, if they know our hearts to be 

pure."

"How can we trust them?"

"What choice do we have?"

Maeldhuin's horse approached the hedge, eager to nibble the first of the tender spring foliage.   As Maeldhuin pushed it away, realization struck.  "We must leave the horses behind," he said, his grey eyes wide with dismay.  "The canopy is too low, they cannot pass unharmed.  Gilthaethil, will you take them back?"

"And leave you alone? They are wise beasts.  They can find their way home without my aid."

Maeldhuin's concern was not solely for the well being of the animals.  Gilthaethil could not fathom the dangers they might soon face.  And if he fell, what would become of her?  Fear and doubt crept into his heart.  Instinctively, he reached for he pouch at his breast. Courage and strength returned, and with them, resolve. "The road is fraught with dangers, Gilthaethil, the like you have never imagined."

"Aye."

"Why then would you do this?"

She shrugged.  "I am called.  I cannot tell to what end."

"Who will tend your shrine and care for the creatures of the forest if you fail to return?"

"A keeper will be found. A keeper is always found."

Maeldhuin gave a rueful smile.  He reached for her hands and felt the tremor in her fingers.  "Is there aught I can say that will persuade you to return to your hilltop?" 

Solemnly, as if swearing an oath, she shook her head.  

Maeldhuin shrugged, resigned, having expected no other answer.  Knowing his companion's resolve to be unshakable, he turned his thoughts instead to the problem of the horses.   They would have need of swift, sure-footed mounts if ever they found their way to the other side of the wall.  Yet how would he persuade the animals to follow them down such a dark and treacherous path?  

Gilthaethil tore the hem from her cloak. "There is no need to abandon them.  If we bind their eyes they will not fear the thorns or the darkness."  Maeldhuin seemed uncertain, but Gilthaethil continued, "Trust me, I know animals.  They will suffer us to lead them through the thicket.  We will take care that they come to no harm.  The thicket itself will do the rest."

The going was slow and tedious.  The pathway was, in truth, barely more than a narrow space between the briars that twisted first one way, and then the other, threatening to impale them at every turn.  How far they traveled thus, even Maeldhuin, seasoned traveller that he was, could not fathom.  He had lost all sense of time, distance, and direction after only a few short strides beneath the briars.

Beneath their blindfolds the two horses shivered, for they could sense their masters' apprehension.  But they loved and trusted them to let no hurt touch them.  That trust was well repaid, and whether it was due to their masters' skill, or to some magic of the briars themselves, not one scratch did they suffer, though the thorns were never more than a finger's breadth away from their heads and flanks.

For an age, it seemed the travellers picked their way through the thorns, until the horses stumbled with fatigue, and even the tireless Elves were bent with weariness. At length, however, the air became more wholesome, and soon thereafter, a faint silver light puddled around their feet. Soon, it swirled about their knees, until Maeldhuin pushed aside one last thorn-laden branch, and the pair stepped into a pool of shimmering starlight.  

The world appearing suddenly before them was one of breathtaking beauty. The cliffs, so high and forbidding on the southern side of the hedge, were no higher here than a common pasture wall. And although both companions would have sworn to having made no great descent, the river now gurgling sleepily but a few paces away told a different tale.  Stars danced across the sky, and below, their light was caught in the heavy dew to cast nets of bright stars upon the ground. The river threw diamonds from its quicksilver surface back to the heavens above. Creatures with wings of lace and gossamer flitted through the night air, carrying filaments of starlight to pale flowers nodding drowsily in the soft night wind. 

Maeldhuin and Gilthaethil were lost in awe and wonder, when without warning and almost without sound, the thicket behind them trembled, as if touched by the merest breath of wind. In the blink of an eye, the dark passageway vanished, leaving no trace of its existence. 

 And as the last shivering leaf settled into place, a sound remote and chillingly clear cut through the air, riving the night with a cry of pain and despair.

**_* * *_**

**_To be continued._**__****


End file.
